Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
“TJ is a McPherson,” Toby points out. “Y’know. Your new best friend at T&S’s. And my only other guy friend is a Strong—Jimmy. This place is only so big.”
I snort. “I’m learning that fact quickly.”
Toby rises from the picnic table, stretches, then checks the time again. “Yeah, I’d better go. Still have to walk home.” He looks at me. “Will I still see you later?”
It’s like he’s afraid every time we part, it’ll be the last. “Yeah. I’ll be outside Biggie’s at eleven, every time.”
Every time.
I might have been reckless a countless amount of times in my life. I might encourage my friends to step outside their norms. I’ve had a tendency to inspire mischief, or bend rules, or get others into trouble. But one thing I have never done is broken a promise. When I make one, I keep it at all costs.
I think it’s that level of loyalty that really speaks to Toby, for after I say those words, a look of warm resolve settles on his face. I want to kiss him so badly right now, out here in this park, with the wind in our hair and someone’s unleashed dog chasing circles around a tree, and a family occupying another picnic table several yards away, and a couple guys playing Frisbee. I want to take him on this table and know his lips all over again.
Instead, I give him a nod, grunt, “Well, see ya,” then head off.
I’m half a melted popsicle, sticky and in puddles by the time I make it home. My mom is out somewhere, but my dad is down in his office off the living room. I hear a distant, “Hey there, son,” as I ascend the steps. “Hey, Dad,” I call back before heading straight for the shower to clean up. And while the hot water bathes me, I can’t help but let thoughts of Toby’s lips flood my dream-filled, swimming mind. All the blood in my body pumps southward, and after squeezing some lotion on my hand, I get to work relieving myself of every bit of frustration that’s built up over the past two days. Toby’s lips. His soft hands. His cute butt in those gym shorts. It takes me literally a minute and a half.
Long after I’m dried off and dressed, my dad finds me at my desk where I’m finishing up some math homework I’ve neglected. “Mom and I are meeting with the Porters for dinner,” he tells me. “You want to join us, or have you got some plans of your own?”
“I got plans.” I scribble away as I solve for x.
My dad leans against the desk, arms folded. He watches me for a while. “You’ve always been so good at math.”
“Not really.”
“You are. It goes hand-in-hand with art, I think. The way you measure and calculate and …” He sighs happily. “Y’know, it would mean a lot to your mother and I if you came to dinner with us.”
“I’m not even hungry.” My stomach growls immediately after the words are out of my mouth. “Not that hungry,” I amend.
“Come out with us. It’s just a couple of hours, tops. You can get right back to your night, whatever you plan to do. Please.”
It has crossed my mind that he hasn’t once asked where I was last night or where I went after school. When I look up from my work and find him gazing out the window with his eyes full of thoughts, something in me gives way.
And with a change of my t-shirt to a button-down, I’m at once in the back seat of my parents’ car as we drive into town. My dad keeps up a chipper attitude as he drives us, chatting on about something to do with an article he read, while my mother peers out her window, her eyes cold and hard. The restaurant is quite a bit of ways down a long road that isn’t quite a highway, and after parking the car, a sign with “Nadine’s” across it in bright, curly letters meets my eyes. Inside, the moody lighting reveals that we’re at the most “upscale” place a country town can provide, judging from the fancy décor and a good portion of the clientele wearing suits or dresses. We’re brought to a big table off to the side where Mr. and Mrs. Porter are already seated, happy to receive us. Mr. Porter’s belly is squeezed into a brown suit, and his bald head shines with the light from a chandelier above. His wife is a stiff twig of a lady whose own coldness makes my mother look as warm as a summer Bundt cake fresh from the oven. An orange handlebar mustache frames Mr. Porter’s thin lips, and while his eyes appear welcoming, his voice carries a more-than-obvious hint of condescension, like everyone automatically reveres him without knowing the first thing, and the world is a plate from which he’ll feast and sample whatever he pleases.