Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Like tell Baptist about the baby.
“Why are you doing this? What the hell do you care what I do?”
“I’m fascinated by people who choose to break past their self-imposed restrictions. You are the most restricted of anyone I’ve met in some time, and we happen to have this little arrangement together. And so, if you want me to sign the papers and begin the film in earnest, you will act.”
“Bastard. This isn’t worth it.”
“Good.” He grins happily. “That’s the point.” He turns away and produces more crumbs from his pocket. He tosses them to the birds and the birds go wild, pecking and pushing at each other to get at the food.
I’m dismissed. I’m a passing idea now. I turn away and glance at the trash can. Inside, an ancient Roman mask is sitting in pieces. Screw it—let it stay there. It’ll rot in some dump. Maybe it’ll be unearthed in a thousand years by some far-future archeologist studying our broken present.
He wants me to act. And there are a dozen things I should act on. Desires, needs, wants. All of them pressing in on me like trash compactors.
I could call my mother and tell her off for leaving Max.
I could go to Max and have that talk with him about how he’s been feeling that I’ve been too afraid to start.
I could go to my father and tell him—well, a lot of very bad things.
Instead, I take out my phone and call Baptist.
He answers right away. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. He’s feeding the birds again.”
“Did you tell him what happened?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Meet me for a drink.” I close my eyes, hating myself so much, my fingers pressing against my belly. “We’ll discuss it.”
He’s silent for a few seconds. “Are you sure it’s appropriate to meet beyond work hours? You’ve studiously avoided that for weeks. Ever since—” He doesn’t finish that sentence. We never, ever finish that sentence.
“Don’t be an asshole. Come meet me.”
“I’ll text you an address. Don’t worry, Webb, I’m buying.” He hangs up and I’m left there standing on the sidewalk thinking about my mess of a life and the unborn baby growing inside of me and how I’m going to tell Baptist without throwing up.
* * *
“Do you have a date or something?” Max frowns at me over his laptop as I stand in the living room in front of the floor-length mirror, checking my dress.
“Is something wrong with my clothes?” I frown back at him. “I’m just meeting Baptist for drinks.”
His eyebrows go sky-high. “No, nothing wrong with the dress, it’s just that—you don’t wear that to work stuff.”
I know what he means. The dress isn’t overly revealing or anything like that, but it’s formfitting and flattering, and it’s the sort of distraction that I actively try not to bring into my life with Baptist these days.
Except for tonight, apparently.
“I’m trying to be more casual,” I say, which is a lie, I’m definitely trying to do anything I can to make Baptist think more about me than the baby in me, if that makes sense.
“Right, well, good luck with that.” Max laughs to himself.
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ve seen you and Baptist together. You’re basically dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Ignoring the obvious. Pretending like nothing is happening. Dancing around the truth. Denial is a better word, but I like dancing. You know, moving around each other, but never getting to the point.”
“The point being?”
“You guys like each other.”
“Max.”
He shrugs and laughs. “See what I mean?”
I sigh and turn to face him, arms crossed. I have to be at the bar in ten minutes and I’m already running behind. “Hey, are you going to be okay on your own tonight?”
“Sure, I’m fine. I got a Minecraft game going with some friends.”
“Maybe you and I can do some stuff. You know, brother and sister time.”
“Whatever, that’d be cool.”
I hesitate, frowning a bit, studying my brother. He’s watching the screen and clicking away, and I’m so close to asking him what I really want to ask. Are you okay? But I can’t seem to do it, because I know the answer.
No, he isn’t okay. He’s very far from okay.
“Love you,” I say, heading to the door.
“You too,” he mumbles.
I glance back one more time. I’m going to have that talk with him. I’m going to ask him how he’s doing, how he’s processing Mom and Dad and living with me and all that, but not right now.
One mess at a time.
I leave, hop in an Uber, and make it to the place only a few minutes late. Baptist is sitting at the bar sipping something brown. It’s dim, not too loud, lots of wood and metal and young professional types in nice clothes. The bartender’s got as many piercings as he has tattoos, which is a lot.
“There you are, Webb.” Baptist turns to me—and his eyes widen. “And hello to you.”