Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
The truth of it is, I am. Of course I am. I’m fucking terrified of where this is heading and if it’s going to emotionally wreck me like the divorce. What if Leif meets someone else and likes her better? What if he decides I’m too much trouble? And if that isn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy then I don’t know what is. Dammit.
I spent a good part of the night listening to the unbroken quiet of the condo, staring at my bedroom door, and gnawing my heart out. If there was some sort of world record for worrying, I’d have been a sure contender last night. And the truth is, Leif deserves better. I just have to figure out how to say it right. How to retain some pride and not burst into tears. Little things like that.
I wasn’t supposed to be working today, but there’s no way I can wait until tonight to talk to him. We’re sure as hell not resolving this over the phone. After a good long shower, I throw on some jeans and a dressy white boho blouse with embroidery. Put my hair up in a stylishly messy bun and apply some makeup. An effort that hopefully says I want to be attractive to him and care about how I look. If he could take one look at me and fall at my feet, that would great. I am not, however, holding my breath. Hopefully the makeup will also cover my red eyes and any and all dark circles. Maybe I should bake something to take with me. Use that as my excuse for stopping by. Only waiting any longer to see him might actually kill me. Because when I walk into the tattoo parlor and he looks up and sees me, that’s when it’s going to happen. That’s when I’ll know. When my nerves will be put to rest. From that look I’m going to be able to tell where we are. If we’re irretrievably broken or if I’m just being overdramatic. Fingers crossed for the latter.
Banging on the door happens just as I’m slipping my purse over my shoulder. It has to be Ed or Clem, because anyone else would have rung the buzzer on the outside of the building. Only I’d have expected both of them to be at work by now. Maybe Clem has a day off and wants to do something. In which case, I’ll say yes. After stopping by to see Leif, of course. But I’ll stop letting my anxiety rule me and I’ll take a chance. Perhaps if I stop pausing and putting up walls then we can become great friends. Who knows?
Only it’s not Clem standing outside the door. It’s an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a flannel shirt sitting open over a tee. Greasy jeans and battered sneakers complete the look.
“Do you know me?” he asks before I can think to say anything.
“Do I know you? Um. No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do you know me?” I ask, bewildered and well beyond weirded out. “Where did we meet?”
“No. Pay attention. Really look,” he insists, stepping closer. When he was already much closer than I liked. His face is lined and his eyes messed up somehow. It’s the pupils. They’re like pinpricks. “Look.”
“I’m looking.”
And that’s when I see it. The lump beneath his shirt, tucked into his jeans. My father used to have a gun in the house for security. Though he always kept it locked up tight. It might not be a gun hidden beneath this man’s clothes, but what the hell else would it be?
“You don’t recognize me at all?” he asks, hot breath stinking in my face.
“No. Not at all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He waves on his feet a little. Whatever drugs he’s taken, it’s hitting him hard. “You better not be lying. It’ll be real bad if you were lying.”
“Absolutely. I am not lying. I swear.” Except I am lying because now that I think about it, he is kind of familiar. The old dude looking at Mom at the café yesterday. And maybe he was sitting in his car outside during that whole fight with Ryan as well. Only he had sunglasses on that time. But I’ve definitely seen this man before. Not that I let it show on my face. I hold myself rigid, ready to attack. Not that I know a damn thing about attacking. I do have my keys in hand, however, with the pointy tips sticking out through my fingers. Maybe I can jab him with one in the throat or eye. If he makes a move, I have to do something. Defend myself somehow. My heart is pounding and sweat breaks out across my back.
“You don’t want me to have to come back here,” he says, going heavy on the threatening. “Neither of us want that.”