Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I open my computer, pull up her site, and I read until I'm too tired to read anymore.
I dream about my sister.
I dream about meeting Hearts and Thorns on the beach, reading The Awakening together, sharing every place we hurt.
She isn't the formless, shapeless figure she normally is.
She's Imogen.
And she's inviting me to offer something real of my own.
I wake to the smell of cinnamon, a head full of confusion, a hell of a lot of soreness. She was right. She wore me out.
And that's what I'm doing here.
What I'm doing with her.
Maybe I want the kind of intimacy my online crush offers, but I'm not completely oblivious. I get that goes both ways. I understand Imogen only wants me for one thing.
And I plan to enjoy every second giving her that thing.
I move through my morning routine, head downstairs, meet Imogen in the kitchen.
"Morning." Imogen turns to me with a wide, honest smile. "I got started early. But I can make you another round. I did promise to teach you."
"Can I try?"
She hands a steaming mug to me. "What do you think?"
The mix of spices fills the air. Cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, something like licorice. Not my usual breakfast. I push back when my friends mock my light beer consumption, but they're not exactly wrong.
I'm not a man of exquisite taste. The closest I've ever gotten to a homemade chai is sips of an ex-girlfriend's Starbuck's drink.
This blows that out of the water.
It's stronger, more robust than any tea I've ever tasted. It's spicy, rich, sweet, creamy. "That's amazing."
"Thanks."
"How did you do that?" I ask.
"It's easy."
"You tried my chai?"
"It wasn't that bad," she says. "Just over-steeped and under-spiced."
"Over what?"
"If you boil the tea too long, it gets astringent and bitter. The timing is everything."
"Is it obvious I don't cook?"
"No. You're super ripped."
I raise a brow.
"Don't tell me you eat Taco Bell for lunch. I won't buy it."
"I won't say that."
"Chicken breast and broccoli?" she asks.
"What do you have against broccoli?"
She laughs. "I just mean… I know your body-type doesn't come easily."
"Yeah? And this." I run my hands over her shoulders.
She leans into the touch. "Patrick…"
"You have a fantastic body."
"It's kind of athletic."
"You're an athlete."
"Still." Her eyes flutter closed. "My hips are a little narrow. My breasts are a little small. My shoulders are massive."
"Your shoulders are sexy," I say. "And your breasts are perfect. If you say another bad thing about them, I'll have to lavish them with attention, to make it up to them."
"They are small."
"Sounds bad—"
"It's a fact."
"You're on thin ice, Nguyen."
She laughs. "One of my teammates does that. It never happened in high school. Too many Nguyens on the team."
"My name is Patrick Murphy."
"Is that common?"
"Two of the most common Irish names, yeah."
"So you get it?"
I get it. "Do you like it?" I ask.
"It's kind of cute, yeah. But, uh, the chai… I promised."
"You sure?"
She nods. "I'll have to go after. Class."
"Then show me fast."
"There's no rushing chai. It needs how much time it needs."
"Then fuck the chai."
She laughs. "No, I promised. Here." She strains the pot she's using then she takes me through the process. A cup of water, four tablespoons of leaves, extra spices, a pinch of each, plus a piece of star anise.
It really is shaped like a star.
I'd never seen it before. Never used it before. Apparently, it's common in Vietnamese cooking. It's only used in some chai blends, but Imogen loves the licorice flavor.
Once the tea is boiling, she sets a timer and rests against the counter. "Six minutes. Then we add the milk, let it warm, strain."
"I can make things happen in six minutes."
"Can you?" She smiles.
"You doubt me?"
"No. You just seem to enjoy… taking your time."
"And you enjoy the teasing."
"I do." Her cheeks flush. "But I, uh, I was going to ask about something. Uh… you're really distracting."
"Thanks."
"Right. The books. Are those yours?" She motions to the shelf in the corner. "I just… I've never met a guy who's read The Bell Jar. Or The Handmaid's Tale, actually. Which is crazy because I almost majored in English."
"You did?" I ask.
"Yeah. My sophomore year, I was considering it. Partly because my parents would hate it. Partly because I love to read and write."
"What happened?"
"I loved some of the books and I loved thinking about them, but I didn't really like doing it in the context of school. Now my economics class? I loved it. It was a whole other way to understand the world. And it was so much more concrete than literature."
"You don't seem like someone who needs concrete," I say.
"Not exactly. But I do need structure."
"A summer fling that ends when the school year starts?"
"Basically."
"So I make you come every Sunday night?"
"I wouldn't say no to that, but before I give in to my lust…"
"They're my sister's." This is it. A chance to share. To open myself to intimacy, to offer her understanding.