Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Hmmm…” He pulls a black sharpie out of his pocket and taps it against his chin. “I can’t be nice, and I can’t be mean, is that it?”
“Normal.” I scrunch up my nose. “Just try normal.”
He reaches into his pocket, his smile wide, and pulls out a piece of notebook paper. “Normal’s hard for someone so perfect.”
“Wowwwww.” I kick him with my foot.
He laughs. “What about the whole twenty-four-hour cease-fire?”
“It slipped.” I cross my arms and sit up. “Are we doing homework now or what?”
“Yes, because I’m always known for doing homework on the weekends when a hot girl’s sitting next to me.”
I gasp.
He shrugs and leans forward; I swear I can taste his lips and confusion in the air. “What? It slipped.”
I feel my cheeks heat and look away. “Seriously though…”
“We fight,” he says clearly. “And we’re sometimes better at fighting than anything, so I figured I’d write some house rules for the next twenty-four hours, and if we can actually make it through without shoving each other off the roof, we can maybe discuss making it permanent.”
I’m suspicious by nature, but I’m also curious. “Make what permanent?”
“This.” He spreads his arms wide. “The living situation, the way I see it, if we can make it for twenty-four hours and take a few slow steps toward progress, then maybe when you graduate, you don’t have to grab another black trash bag and dump your shit into it. Maybe instead, you can live with an abandoned perfect kid in his giant house with all his memories and no parents.”
“Very depressing sentence,” I say.
My throat nearly closes as he asks, ”The trash bag?”
“The no parents,” I whisper, then tuck my feet under my body and scoot toward him. “What sort of rules would we put on here anyway?”
Subject change. I need a subject change.
He grins down at the piece of paper then bites off the cap of the sharpie, not really giving me an answer as he writes down a number one. He spits out the lid and looks over at me. His amber hair is still damp, sticking to his forehead, and his strong jaw seems almost more pronounced for some reason. Maybe the lighting, maybe I’m going crazy, maybe it’s the way he smiles at me like he means it, like I’m important to him when I know I’m not. How could I be?
“No talking at school,” he says as he writes it down. “That way, nobody will talk about us, the only communication…” He puts a little dash underneath it. “…will be strictly stuff about homework, saying hi, and bye.”
I nod. It actually does make sense, self-preservation and all that. “That works, and it’s not like it’s hard since that’s how the last six months have been.”
Something flickers in his eyes before he clears his throat and looks back down. “Number two, we don’t tell anyone mom’s gone.”
“Agreed.” I nod. “That’s a bad look, after all.”
“Can’t be perfect without the perfect family,” he grumbles, then writes a number three.
I grab the marker from him and then lean in so I can write on the paper.
“Number three, the house is off-limits, rules don’t exist, only us.” I’m proud of the freedom I created until he stills and looks over at me.
“Are we sure that’s a good idea?”
“Are you sure it’s a bad one?” I counter quickly.
His eyes move to my mouth before he looks back down at the paper. “I guess it’s just a test anyway, right? We still have to survive the next twenty-four-hour disaster before we put this bad boy on the fridge.”
I smile so hard I think I freak him out.
“Why are you so happy about me putting rules on the fridge with a magnet from my mom’s yoga studio? It literally says namaste, not in a fun color, but what they call cucumber cool green. It’s supposed to be more relaxing, you see.”
“I’m more worried; how you know that?”
“Mom asked.” He laughs. “Only esthetically pleasing things near the food.”
My jaw drops. “You’re just joking, right?”
He shrugs. “It upsets the freshly squeezed juice, don’t even get me started on the milk…” He crooks his finger toward me, then whispers, “It spoils.”
I nearly shove him off the couch. “Now I know you’re full of shit.”
He throws his hands into the air laughing. “I shit you not. We had a family meeting about only saying positive things when we opened the fridge, something about how negativity makes the food go bad—it has feelings.”
I lift my Mountain Dew to my face and whisper, “I love you.”
This time Ambrose does fall off the couch onto the ground; he’s laughing so hard he looks like he might start crying. “Holy shit, I meant food, not Mountain Dew. That shit is dead; it’s fucking formaldehyde!”
“TAKE IT BACK!” I yell, throwing a pillow with my free hand. “YOU HURT ITS FEELINGS!”