Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Christ.
The problem is that I’m half a virgin. My parents were so strict about who I dated. I mean, in hindsight, I get it, but at the time, I didn’t, and my romantic life involved lots of sneaking around. Not so different from most teenagers, so yes, I’m half a virgin. I mean, technically, I’m not a virgin anymore. The cherry is gone and has been since near the end of eleventh grade, two weeks before summer break, in the token backseat of a car heist.
I’ve had just enough experience to realize it wasn’t a good one and that it has to be better. My lady bits are in unanimous agreement that it would indeed be better with Thaddius.
In short, I know what I’m missing, but I also don’t know what I’m missing. That divide just adds up to every part of me wanting to find out.
As far as Thaddius is concerned, I’m still just someone who is going to leave in five days. I came here to convince him to make the fact that we shouldn’t marry each other legally airtight. I was so against it. I should still be against it. I mean, can I still be against marriage but want to jump his bones? I believe it’s called basic horniness, and it’s purely biological, and there’s a lot we can’t help about how we’re made up, so I guess, in a way, it makes sense. Thaddius is good-looking. He’s symmetrical, he has good genetics, he’d be a stable provider financially, and he’s strong and fit, which means more good genetics. That’s biology.
But what about the bits that are the brain and heart and reason? They’re not throwing up big walls and hard red flags like they were before.
I need to stick to the original plan. The fact that Thaddius might be hiding a bit of a hurt squishy heart can’t impact my decision to stay. I’m not going to be able to save him. He doesn’t need saving. He has his farm, the sheep, his donkey, and his dog and cats and chickens to heal his wounds.
In the living room, I focus on my cup of coffee since it’s been known to fix all woes and pick up the book I started reading yesterday. I guess I’m not very coordinated one-handed because the book drops onto the floor, slamming with a bang that nearly makes me leap off the couch, while my coffee does dangerous sloshy things in the mug.
“Shit.” I lean forward and pick up the book. As I’m picking it up, a few pieces of paper fall out and flutter down to the ground, so I set the book on the round antique side table, anchor my mug there too, and lean forward to gather them up.
I arrange them neatly without looking, open the back cover of the book, and stick them there, all without snooping. It’s none of my business what those papers are. I can tell they’re handwritten. They weren’t meant for me, but I still find myself turning one around.
And here I am
Picking up the pieces
Of a life that I never knew I wanted.
The heart, an open wound,
The world, made of salt.
A moon that never sleeps and a sun that never comes,
Yet the night, with all its darkness
Is intrinsically comforting.
“Argg!” I quickly slap the page around as though it could bite me.
Of all the things Thaddius said yesterday, this is far more intimate. And yesterday, I could tell how embarrassed he was that he was speaking at all. Opening up doesn’t seem to be something he does with people. He was hurt. Badly. And he hasn’t talked to anyone about it? Well, maybe just the sheep. But he gave me a glimpse before he drew back and started closing in the walls and ordering the ranks back together to protect that place inside him that is just for him to look into.
Reading the words he’s written feels worse than a betrayal. I just didn’t think he’d write poetry. Or that he’d hide them in his books. Or that he’d forget they were there when he clearly saw one of them had been taken out. Thaddius, the poet, is just another layer I haven’t uncovered yet. What if all that grumpiness is really hiding a bruised, delicate, sweet soul?
Of course it is! I knew that even before I read the poetry. Thaddius might not think he’s easy to figure out, but one minute of seeing him with his animals, hearing him talk about the farm, or seeing how he didn’t really hate his mom and grandma’s meddling when they were here—how it was just utterly exhausting to him—and I knew.
I knew he was all bluster.
Great. Now my ovaries are singing a happy dance, and the rest of my body is joining in. My brain is thinking up all sorts of seductive things we could do to make it clear that we’d like to…to…well, I guess, get it on. Without strings. Can I do that? I’m only here for five more days. Neither of us wants me to be here. I think. I’m not exactly sure about that on my part. And Thaddius probably appreciates the company more than he’s willing to admit, maybe even to himself. But friendship doesn’t equal sexy time.