Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
The train is blowing into the station at full steam now, making my clothes stick to my body and Jess’s pigtails swarm around her face. On instinct, I reach out, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
She looks up, her eyes wide and a little spooked, but when the train stops and the automatic doors slide open, she doesn’t let go. She holds tight to my hand as we step into the mostly empty car and find two seats together on the opposite side.
As the doors close and the driver announces the next stop before urging everyone to stand clear of the closing doors, she mutters, “You have a nice hand.”
“Thanks, yours is nice, too. Not too sweaty, not too dry. Just right.”
She leans against my arm. “Thanks. Not to brag, but my feet are like that too. My shoes hardly ever smell.”
“You’re an incredible creature,” I murmur. “But I already knew that.”
She tips her chin up, locking eyes with me as she whispers, “I almost canceled. I was nervous.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. And don’t be nervous. I’m still the same person you used to pelt with used tissues when I beat you at Tetris.”
“No, you aren’t,” she says, her lips quirking. “But I totally am. I just threw a tissue at Evie this morning, in fact. It wasn’t used, though. I have evolved a little.”
I grin. “Good to know. So, are you going to tell me where we’re going? Now that I’m on the subway with no path of escape?”
She grins. “Nope. You’re going to have to wait and relish the suspense for a little longer.”
I’m about to tell her that I’m okay with suspense, and that I intend on relishing every moment in her company, when the woman sitting across from us pops off a shoe, grunts, and begins picking at her toenail with a toothpick.
Jess glances back at me with a “told you so” lift of her brows.
I tip my head in acknowledgment, fighting a wave of laughter as she whispers, “Stick with me, kid, I’ll show you all the good stuff.”
“Don’t doubt it for a second,” I say.
And I don’t. As long as I’m with Jess, everything is good stuff.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jess
It’s not weird to be holding hands with an old friend.
Old friends hold hands all the time!
I can’t actually remember any friends I’ve personally held hands with, or occasions when I’ve witnessed people I know to be just friends with their fingers entwined, but that’s probably because I wasn’t paying attention.
Humans are notorious for only seeing what we’re expecting to see. Confirmation bias—subconsciously latching on to things that support our world view while failing to notice things that don’t—is probably one of the biggest problems facing humanity’s evolution.
If we aren’t even absorbing all the data available in a given situation, how can we ever hope to evaluate it fairly and come to logical conclusions?
I say as much to Sam, who has several interesting things to add involving a study on confirmation bias in parliament members in the Netherlands, reminding me why I loved hanging out with him so much when we were kids.
He’s the only person I’ve ever met who hordes knowledge the way I do. And not because he’s trying to impress anyone or training to win a million bucks on Jeopardy. He’s just curious, like I am, and invested in doing this whole “being human” thing better than it’s been done thus far.
I ask him what he thinks about dark matter and the ensuing debate about what all the invisible mass clogging the universe might actually be—and what its purpose and function is within the still largely mysterious ecosystem of space—carries us all the way to the sunny concrete patio outside the Brooklyn Library. There, all the furry, purry darlings a girl could want are roaming a plastic-paneled enclosure filled with cat towers, balls, fluffy beds, and several dishes of water and dry food.
Biting back an excited squeal at the sight of at least four kittens mixed in with the older cats, I drop Sam’s hand and pull my application from my bag, starting for the line at the potential foster-parent check-in desk with a bounce in my step.
When he sees where I’m headed, Sam laughs. “You’re finally pulling the trigger on your Cat Lady fantasy, huh? Should I be worried?”
“Worried about what?” I ask, sliding my sunglasses atop my head in the shade of the tent covering the desk. “That I’ll form a loving interspecies bond with a precious fur baby who will fill the holes in my heart with snuggles, joy, and cat hair?”
“No, just concerned you might have a hard time working from home with a new fur baby around,” he says, his expression sobering as he adds, “But if you have holes in your heart, you should definitely try to fill them. I’ll support that any day.”