Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“What the hell just happened?” he asked her.
Ren dug into her bag and pressed a hand over her mouth. One by one, she pulled items out: a watch, a wad of assorted crumpled bills, their wallets with everything still inside, a Subway gift card, a roll of quarters, some sunglasses, a pack of gum, a business card for a motorcycle shop, a whole bunch of loose change, a burner phone, and a fat wad of twenties secured with a rubber band.
Fitz took the twenties, unbinding the roll, and counted out nearly a thousand dollars. “This money is definitely not clean,” he murmured.
Ren slid the sunglasses on, looked over at him, and grinned. “Looks like pizza’s on me tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FITZ
Billings, Montana, offered up a motel room with twin beds, which was both a blessing and a curse. The upside, of course, was that Fitz wouldn’t be on the floor, waking up with a sore back. The downside, unfortunately, was that he could lie there, turn his head to the side, and pretend that the four feet of space between their beds had disappeared. Not that he wanted that, of course.
Ren was on her stomach over on her bed, wearing the sleep shorts he was relieved to see existed and the roomy T-shirt, with a pizza box splayed open in front of her, legs kicking behind her in delight as she watched the first movie in the Hobbit trilogy.
He wanted to go back to the Fitz of twelve hours ago, the one who felt determined to put this tiny, blond obstacle on a bus headed west. He didn’t want to keep thinking about the scene back at the saloon, where she was fearless and beautiful and naive and irresistible all at once. He didn’t want feelings of warm spring wind passing over his arm from an open window, and Ren’s pretty voice singing absently along to an oldies station they’d found when his Spotify dropped out of cell range. He didn’t want to see the world through the eyes of someone who was experiencing the most basic of things for the very first time: delivery pizza, on-demand post-1990 movies with decent CGI, the apparent splendor of a run-down lobby in a Motel 6. Everything Ren did, she did with enthusiasm, and without any ego or pretense whatsoever.
He had a vague uneasiness settling in his chest, like something huge had shifted inside, a boulder rolled over to reveal a secret opening. He worried he would never be the same again.
He wanted to be the same. This was a skin he’d worked hard to become comfortable wearing: Fitz, who could insinuate himself into any world to get what he needed; Fitz, who was at his best when he only pretended to care what other people thought; Fitz, who had one—and only one—path forward. But the only thought he had tonight wasn’t compatible with any of that: Why was I in such a rush to get rid of her?
Don’t talk to her, he told himself now. Zone out. Scroll Instagram. Catch up on baseball scores. Stare at the ceiling.
It was like being carbonated and sealed in an aluminum vessel. Every time she laughed or gasped or made a sound of awe, he wanted to look over and see what it was that caught her attention.
He wanted her attention.
What the hell was happening to him?
“I didn’t know you like to paint,” he said out of absolutely nowhere.
She glanced away from the movie and reached for the remote, pausing it. “What’s that?”
“I knew you drew, I guess. The card, I mean, from before we left,” he stammered, as he remembered the card. That amazing, intricate card she must have spent hours drawing. He cleared his throat. “But today at the bar, your story about the paints. Then, when you emptied your bag, you had some paintbrushes in there. A science whiz, a petty criminal, and a painter. Who knew?”
She laughed. “Gloria says I started painting the second we arrived at the homestead. She says it’s how she knew I was supposed to be there.”
“How old were you when you moved there?”
“I think I was around three.”
“Where did you live before?”
She frowned down at the bedspread. “I don’t know, actually.”
“What kinds of things do you usually paint?”
Ren hopped off the bed to walk over to her bag. Digging around, she grabbed her notebook, and before he realized what was happening, she settled down beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, with their backs against the narrow headboard, she flipped through the pages, showing him what was there. There were a few sketches of people—including her roommate, Miriam—a pig, a cat, a view out the door of her bedroom back home, and her cabin from the outside. But those weren’t the main event, not even close. Because surrounding every object and taking up all the remaining space on every page were the same tiny explosions she’d drawn all over his thank-you card: the most detailed fireworks he’d ever seen. In the world of Ren’s imagination, the air was made of playful fire, mischievous sparklers, sensual licks of color.