Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Stu talked a neighbor into giving him a job at his car repair shop and Nic stayed in school. She busked around town on the weekends to make money. They made it work. While I did the opposite,” he says with a grimace. “You couldn’t find a more polite and helpful person in existence. I smiled till my face hurt. Did anything to disprove the shit they were saying behind our backs.”
“I’m really sorry that happened to you.”
“It wasn’t all bad. School wasn’t my thing outside of playing ball. But Stu got me some hours at the repair shop, and I worked my ass off. Then as soon as I graduated, I went full time,” he says. “My obsession with being accepted used to drive her wild, though.”
“Ava?”
“Yeah. We fought about it a lot.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“No.” His smile is brief. “I spent two decades being the nice guy. My life looked exactly how I thought it should. And I realized, I wasn’t happy.”
“Was that last Christmas?”
He nods.
“Nice is such a strange thing. It’s a social lubricant that doesn’t mean anything. Not really. Nice is just performative. Kindness on the other hand…that’s harder. I struggle with that one sometimes.”
He grunts.
“Do you think perhaps you overcorrected with the cranky?”
“It’s possible.” He thinks it over. “I spent so much time trying to prove I wasn’t my father that I never got around to being me.”
I stare at the ceiling and listen to the rain pattering against the window. Things sound calmer now. Not so bad. “It’s funny because I picked up on the exact opposite thing about you. I even told your grandma that you seem so genuine and real that it freed me up to be completely myself when we’re together. Maybe I felt that connection because we’re both searching for happy. That’s something we have in common.”
Another grunt.
“What would make you happy, Connor?”
“You coming with me to the high school reunion.”
I perk right the heck up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “After last night’s demonstration, we’re probably going to have more people on our side. I didn’t want to take up all your time this weekend. But having you as my date would really hammer it home.”
Hope really is a heartbreaker. Just an all-round jerk. I take a deep breath and paste on a smile. “That does make sense.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Sure. Why not? It’s all good research, right?”
“Thanks, Riley,” he says with a smile. “You’re the best.”
Golden sunlight fills the room when I wake. My sleep was deep and full of strange dreams. Sex dreams mostly. But restful just the same. General feelings of contentment and wellbeing fill me. My body is warm, and my muscles relaxed. It takes me a minute to figure out the where and when and why of my situation. Where is Port Stewart. When is Saturday. And why is…I am not actually sure.
I am lying on my back while my platonic friend is wrapped around me. He’s using my left breast as a pillow with his arm slung around my middle and one of his legs thrown over both of mine. There’s a bulge pressing into my hip. But let’s ignore that. Though I doubt I can ignore anything about this. It feels too good. Like scarily right. The line of his spine rises and falls with each deep, even breath. How to get out from underneath him is the trick, however. Because I really need to go to the bathroom.
I play with his hair while I think it over. Twining a lock around my finger. It is, as expected, a tactile delight. Thick and luscious and lovely. Damn him for having such great hair. Mine is no doubt flat as fuck.
Without moving, he asks in a voice rough with sleep, “The storm’s gone. You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“I need more than Pop-Tarts and cereal. Let’s head over to the coffee house.” He lifts his head. “Hey.”
“Good morning.”
He slowly sits up and cracks his neck. The awkwardness of the situation dawns on him ever so slowly. Which is hilarious. First comes a vague frown. Followed by many furrows on his forehead. Like he can’t quite remember how the situation arose. Then his gaze shifts from my breast to my face and back again. The breast that he was just using as a pillow for no doubt important reasons. One I am unaware of at present.
“You didn’t tell me you were a cuddler,” I say. “Seems like the sort of thing you should warn someone about.”
“No. I am not. It must have been you.” He reaches out his hand as if he’s about to shape or plump something. “Did I flatten it a little?”
“Now that would be crossing a line. Let’s leave the boob fondling for now.”
His hand stops in midair. “Right. Sorry.”
“It was definitely you.”