Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 42882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
“Oh.” I considered this. “But Jay was so angry and hurt. I could tell, even though he tried not to make a scene. And he probably blames me—he should—because it was my fault Chad was even here—”
Pete raised a hand and cut me off. “Do you think Jay is stupid?”
Riled as I was from the disastrous lunch, I didn’t stop to consider what Pete was really asking. I immediately bristled from head to toe and stood up so fast the legs of the chair screeched against the linoleum floor.
“Are you serious right now, Pete Winchell? Jaybird Proud is maybe the smartest person I’ve ever met! If you think for one second that’s not true just because he doesn’t have a bunch of fucking diplomas on his wall, then you’d better think again. Jay is talented. He can fix nearly everything. And he knows people. He cares. He’s openhearted, and open-minded, and generous, and…”
I trailed off when I saw Pete’s grin.
“Uh-huh. I know how smart he is, which is how I know he’s not going to blame you for Chad. And… frankly, I think you’re the one who’s a little dense when it comes to Jay. He knows you’re a good guy,” Pete said kindly. “He likes you. Like, a lot. No landlord brings their tenant a snack every single day, Lane. Not even in the Thicket. Not even if that landlord is Jaybird Proud. I’d bet money he feels the same way you do. You just need to talk to him.”
I flopped back in the chair, completely out of sorts. I couldn’t stop thinking of Jay’s face when he’d gotten up from the table at the restaurant—the tightness of his mouth and the bleakness in his eyes. The idea of Jay being hurt, of me causing that hurt, made me want to vomit. “He was upset, Pete. I’ve never seen him bolt out of a place that fast before. I should have never invited Chad to lunch.”
Pete shrugged. “You’ll explain and apologize. So what if you’re not perfect? Jay’s pretty down-to-earth. He wouldn’t go for someone who wanted to be perfect all the time.”
Pete’s words made something click in my brain. I thought about my time with Chad. Our glossy, picture-perfect life in Athens. From the outside, it had seemed enviable, but inside, it had been stifling.
I’d been running on fumes, chasing a vision of success—a level of perfection—that was as hollow as Chad’s compliments.
“I don’t want a perfect life,” I murmured, processing this new realization. “Perfection’s not attainable or sustainable.”
“Nope. Not any fun either,” Pete agreed. “Jaybird Proud, though. He’s tons of fun.”
I inhaled deeply, remembering the time back in March when the weather was still a bit chilly but with the first hint of spring in the air. Jay had decided to host a “Firepit Feast” in the backyard, complete with a bonfire, homemade chili… and outdoor charades.
“BYOB,” he’d told the guests. “Bring your own blankets.”
When it was Quinn Champion’s turn to play, the man had taken one look at the selection on his piece of paper, shrugged, and immediately started running around the yard while flapping his hands, ducking his head, and jumping over furniture.
“You’re a… a chicken,” Diesel Partridge had guessed. “Throwing a tantrum because the Wi-Fi in the Poultry Palace went out.”
“You’re… Beyoncé’s least-coordinated backup dancer?” Brooks Johnson had offered.
“You’re… little Beau Siegel after gorging himself on leftover Halloween candy,” Brooks’s husband, Mal, had thrown in, laughing when Ava Siegel—Beau’s mom—slapped his leg.
“You’re… you, the morning you managed to buy Taylor Swift tickets,” Quinn’s husband, Champ, had said blandly.
Quinn had stopped flapping and given his husband a raised-eyebrow glare that suggested Champ would be paying for that tease later… though Champ’s answering smirk had said he wouldn’t mind one bit.
“Nah. You’re Indiana Jones when he’s escaping from the Temple of Doom,” Jay had said with utter confidence. “Easy peasy.”
Quinn had thrown up his hands. “Thank you, Jay,” he’d said, breathless from exertion. “Finally. At least someone around here understands me.”
“Jay is fun,” I told Pete, unable to keep a smile off my face. “He’s fun, and he’s kind. And I love him for it.”
“Love?” Pete said, grinning and bouncing his eyebrows again. “You gonna make him a wreath, Doc Lane? Wrap your vines of love all around him?”
My stomach twisted even as I waved a hand. “I’m gonna try. I made him a wreath a while ago. It’s terrible, but it’s done. I mean. Kind of. Overdone, maybe. I tried fixing it a few times, and it didn’t get any better.” I scraped my upper lip with my teeth. “It’s a lot of pressure, making a wreath for the Thicket’s Entwinin’ expert.”
Pete tsk’d. “It’s the gesture, Lane. Not the craftsmanship. And you’re not about perfection anymore.”
I remembered Jay the night he’d introduced me to Disco Dave, telling me that nobody expected perfection in an Entwinin’ wreath because “the real perfection is the love the maker has for their Entwined.”