Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
No. Laughs at me.
And my God, look at him! I didn’t pay much attention to him this morning, I was too flustered. But he’s hotter than ever. How is that fair?
I stop looking. It’s over. I don’t need to know this stuff. Obviously, I threw myself at him and I wish I hadn’t.
I wish I hadn’t.
Here’s something most people don’t know about me—which is kind of meta, because it’s about people knowing stuff about me.
I don’t want people to know me. I can’t even explain this properly, but I don’t want people to know anything about me. I just feel that… people don’t have the right to know me. Not without my permission. Which is so stupid, I understand this. But it’s how I feel. And now Taylor and Collin both know something about me that I didn’t give them permission to know.
I hate this feeling. It’s vulnerability mixed in with a violation of privacy.
And the worst part is—Collin is the whole reason I’m this way to begin with.
It was him. And what he did to me when he left that year.
He broke my heart and he didn’t even care enough to say goodbye.
When it comes time to choose a house for myself—Amon is not interested in a roommate unless they have four legs—I choose the house in the back, right up against the woods. When you turn in the driveway it’s the one straight ahead at the end of the gravel cul-de-sac. It’s a two-bedroom, one-bath that looks like it was last updated circa nineteen sixty-nine.
This particular house didn’t have pics online, so once I get inside, I discover that someone has pulled up the carpet to reveal the original hardwood—which is cool, but they are a mess. Every room has a grid of carpet tack strips running across it, and prying those up will be a necessary, time-consuming job, but other than that, it’s not bad. And while there is some leftover shit from previous occupants, it’s not garbage. It’s just thrift-store kind of stuff.
The kitchen is… I dunno. I can’t make up my mind. It’s either amazing or gross.
All the appliances are avocado green, the flooring is dark brown linoleum—matching the dark-brown cabinets—and the countertops are orange. The backsplash is actually brightly colored daisy wallpaper and even the sink and cooktop were made in matching enamel avocado.
What the hell were people thinking? How could anyone want a green and orange kitchen?
It’s not amazing, I decide. It’s gross.
But the truly ironic thing about this house is that I bet Lowyn McBride would love it.
I didn’t get a good look at what she did to my childhood home, but I saw enough that this is totally her style. Maybe the green in her house isn’t avocado and maybe the orange in her place is a little softer than this, but it’s all very reminiscent.
I do like the porches though. It has a nice-sized one in the front, but a really huge screened-in one in the back. And the screens are not even ripped. Like maybe this work was done recently.
It needs a total reno. Work I don’t really have time to mess with, but I am not unhappy with the purchase or the place I will now call home.
Maybe I’ll never love it, but it is my first house. And it’s on a compound that will soon be overflowing with men so dangerous and so fucked up in the head, they can’t survive in the real world anymore.
And I love the fact that this will be their home too so much more than I ever will the house.
I grin all the way over to Amon’s place, which is actually about a hundred feet to the right. I find him in his kitchen, sweeping the floor.
“Where the hell did you get a broom?”
He points to a skinny closet next to the fridge. “There’s a built-in ironing board, dude. And look!” He picks up a handset of an old-fashioned rotary phone hanging on the wall. His kitchen has dark cabinets too, but his countertops and appliances are turquoise. And so is the phone. The wallpaper is actually patterned black velvet.
The phone has a dial tone. This delights Amon because he’s grinning like a stupid kid. “Can you believe it works?”
“How does it work, though? I mean, whose number is that?”
“Fuck if I know. Fuck if I care. It’s mine now.”
“You don’t even know what the number is.”
He taps the center of the rotary dial. “Look.”
I lean in and I make out a set of faded, barely-there numbers—four, one, one, two. “What the hell does that mean? Where are the rest of the numbers?”
“This is how they did things back in the day.”
“Yeah, but this is the present. So how does it work if it’s only got four numbers?”
“Collin. You’re killin’ my buzz, dude. What do you want?”