Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
This is me, following a guy down the road.
“Hey. Neighbor.” My voice cracks as I call out to him, not that he’s gotten very far, but he’s far enough down the block that I have to raise it. Then say it again because he does not hear me. “Hey! Neighbor!”
Brodie halts on the sidewalk, faltering but not turning around. He probably thinks the random shouting is meant for someone else.
He continues walking.
This is ridiculous.
“Go home, Lizzy,” I tell myself. Go home now and leave the poor guy alone.
Ugh.
I stop, ready to turn my body back to the house, glancing over my shoulder at the same time Brodie happens to glance over his.
“Lizzy?”
He’s facing me now, hands stuffed in his pockets, and even from here, I can see the white earbuds in his ears.
He pulls one out so he can give me his full attention. “What are you doing?”
Do not tell him you saw him out the window and came outside to catch up to him to go wherever he was going. Because you’re curious and bored. And because it’s driving you nuts that he’s an enigma.
“Oh hey.” I act like I literally just noticed him. “I was bored, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”
Goddammit, Lizzy.
I want to face-palm myself or slap a hand over my mouth, but it's too late. Here we are.
“Where are you off to?” I ask a question that the answer is none of my business.
“Hardware store.”
Hardware store? My eyes go wide. “For what?”
He shrugs. “Someone clogged the toilet, and we need to snake it.”
Snake it? “I have no idea what that means.”
He begins trudging along, hands still in his pockets, large frame encompassing most of the sidewalk.
Brodie looks down at me as we walk, and I hug myself when the wind picks up.
“Do you, uh—also have to grab something from the hardware store?”
I shake my head. “No. Actually, I’ve never been to one, so I have no idea what’s inside one.”
He stops on the sidewalk and faces me. “What do you mean you’ve never been inside one?”
Why does he look so shocked? “I have no idea! I just never…have. What is a hardware store?” Judging by the name, it sounds like it’s full of hard things, but I have no idea what that means either. “Obviously, it has toilet supplies?”
He walks a few feet, then tips his head back and laughs. “Yeah, they have toilet supplies there.”
I hurry to catch up because his strides seem to be twice as long as mine. “And what else?”
Brodie shrugs. “I don’t know, lawn mowers? Rakes? Nuts and bolts.”
“Huh.” I cock my head toward him, walking briskly to keep up. “I guess I’ll find out when we get there.”
We walk.
And walk.
And walk a few more blocks.
“How did I not realize it was this far?”
“How often do you come this way?” he asks, looking both ways before we cross yet another street.
“Not often,” I admit. “Are we almost there?”
He glances over at me, then points at the small strip center ahead of us. “See that red awning? That’s the hardware store.”
“Ahh,” I breathe.
I first notice the lawn mowers parked outside, lined up against the curb. Push mowers, riding mowers, and a few mowers that look like tiny John Deere tractors. Several snowblowers.
Gas grills.
When Brodie pushes through the front entrance, the scent of fresh lumber—mixed with the sharp tang of metal—assaults my delicate senses, the ones used to perfume and fruity soap or candles that smell like cookies.
My eyes dart this way and that, overwhelmed by row upon row of tools and equipment and random household do-it-yourself supplies lining the aisles.
“Okay. So this is basically like a mini Home Depot.”
Brodie nods. “Exactly.”
He seems right at home, strolling confidently through the maze of hardware supplies.
“’Sup, Brodie,” the teenager behind the check-out counter calls out to him as he hangs a right at the aisle of bathroom faucets, showerheads, and all sorts of…other stuff.
“Uh. How often are you here?” I tease, trailing him.
“Not that often,” he grunts, looking uncomfortable. “He probably recognizes me from hockey.”
Good point.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“Oh! Look at these!” I find a set of massive scissors and hold them up—with two hands because they weigh a ton—snapping them in his direction. “What are these for? Ribbon cutting ceremonies?”
He laughs. “Those are hedge trimmers.”
I set them down, feeling my face go flush. “Oh.”
Duh.
Deciding I should probably keep my hands to myself and stop touching things, I follow him—behaving myself—as he leads the way, pointing out various items with an expert knowledge that both impress and intimidate me. Things like “Blah blah blah drywall anchors” and “Blah blah blah lawn fertilizer,” none of which I give two shits about.
As we pass by the paint section, I literally cannot resist reaching out to touch the colorful array of cans lining the shelves, plink, plink, plink, one can at a time, all along the row as he walks with purpose.