Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
All charged up, I push back the chair with more force than necessary. It tips backward and crashes loudly against the tiled floor. Everyone jumps.
“I’m…I have to go.”
A minute later I walk out the front door at a brisk pace, lest they see the tears that are falling down my cheeks.
* * *
Noah
I’m taking the trash cans to the end of the driveway when the pizza delivery guy comes racing down the street. Seeing me, he slams on the breaks.
“Hey, dude. You order a large pie with mushrooms?”
Maren. The only person I know that ruins a perfectly good pizza with those things. I take a few bills out of my back pocket and hand him the cash. In exchange, he hands me the pie and drives off.
I was a dick to her again today. And yesterday. And the day before that. I can’t seem to control myself lately. With all the tension building between us, it feels like we’re racing toward an epic showdown and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the one left holding the bag this time.
We’ve been rubbing up against each other all day long for weeks. My nerve endings are raw. I walk around with a hard-on from morning to night chaffing against my jeans. That ain’t helping matters.
Today I had to hit the bathroom and tug one out just to get some goddamn relief so I can actually focus on my work. Talk about karma being a bitch––she couldn’t have come up with worse punishment if she tried.
I ring the doorbell. A second later the door rips open. Any question she was expecting the delivery boy disappears. The smile that immediately slides off her face when she realizes it’s me is both amusing and painful to witness. Then I realize her eyes are red, swollen.
“Are you crying?”
“No.” She’s lying. This woman has never once admitted to crying since I’ve known her. I’ve never seen anyone, woman or man, cling to their pride the way Maren does. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”
I give her the whateveryousay look and hold up the pizza box. “I thought you don’t eat this anymore?”
“I don’t––usually. But I bought all this stuff and then I realized I can’t cook very well with one hand so…” Pushing the door open, I step inside and walk past her. “Hey! Where are you going?”
Dumping the box down on the kitchen counter, I open the refrigerator in search of something more nutritious and hit pay dirt. A fresh salmon steak, and broccoli. I know how seriously she takes her diet and pizza doesn’t have what an athlete’s body needs to repair and maintain muscle.
“Noah?”
I pull those out, place them on the counter, and search for the brown rice in the pantry. Finding that, I rifle through the new cabinets and grab the pots and pans I bought when I remodeled the kitchen.
“Got any white Worcestershire sauce?”
“Umm, no, sorry. I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. What are you doing?”
“I’ll make do without it.” I meet her unwavering gaze. It’s intense in the same way it was when we were kids, and fuck if it doesn’t make me feel good to see that again. “Call it a peace offering…an apology.”
A tense moment of silence follows. The debate being waged is all over her face. She’s weighing the dangers of letting me stay against the prospect of a freshly cooked meal. Which sucks. I can’t believe this is us. Worse than strangers. Behaving like one wrong move or word could blow up in our faces. Christ, what a mess I’ve made of things.
Talking to her used to be the easiest thing in the world. It was as if I could only be myself when I was with her and now a fifty-foot wall stands between us and I don’t have the first clue how to get around it.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says in a quiet voice. I glance over my shoulder and find her with her arms wrapped around her middle. Shifting on her bare feet, she looks unsure, wary of me.
I take in the blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head. My eyes move down her hoody to the tiny shorts she’s wearing and the long tan legs under them. I pause on the scar across her right kneecap that I know she got when she was twelve. So familiar it makes my chest ache. Makes me want to do stupid shit. Like kiss her, and peel away the few scraps of clothes she has on, drive into her over and over until she screams my name. Mine. Not the Lord’s name. Mine. So when she falls asleep in my arms she knows who’s holding her. Loving her.
And if I know what’s good for me, I’ll shake those thoughts out of my head. Maren’s got her entire career ahead of her. She’s not meant to stay here any more than I’m meant to leave.