Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I get carried away as I work, forgetting to eat until I feel slightly dizzy. I fix myself a huge sandwich in the kitchen, piling on as much sustenance as I can manage, before carrying my food back to the library and inspecting the sketches I have laid out on the coffee table. It’s easy for me to critique my work at this stage. I’d much rather toss out bad ideas now rather than later, after I’ve made them come to life on canvas.
I’m halfway through my sandwich, chewing a big bite, when I hear a man speak behind me.
“We obviously need to establish some house rules.”
Seven
I jump out of my skin and my plate slips out of my fingers before crashing to the ground. It shatters, scattering bits of porcelain and food at my feet as I turn to look over my shoulder.
Walt’s standing at the threshold of the room with his hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks. His mouth is tugged into a frown. His dark brows are furrowed in obvious disdain. I’ve seen him annoyed on several occasions, but this is different. I’ve crossed a line. It’s obvious from the way his jaw ticks: he’s pissed.
“Oh god,” I murmur under my breath as I glance down at the damage I’ve caused. My food didn’t just spill, it created a Jackson Pollock masterpiece across his rug, and couch, and coffee table.
The room was already a mess before. My sketches are scattered everywhere. My morning coffee cup and dulled pencils litter the table. My sweater is tossed haphazardly across the back of one of the leather couches, along with his cashmere throw blanket. I found an art history section in his library yesterday and pulled out half a dozen books, scanning the pages about Picasso and other cubists, trying to draw more inspiration for my series.
It didn’t even occur to me that Walt would be home so soon. I feel like an absolute idiot. I had plans to pick up after myself before he arrived. I was going to go to the grocery store and replace all the food I’d eaten. I was going to look into replacing or at least repairing his rug. My goal was to make it look like I hadn’t even been here, but now that’s absolutely not possible. I might as well have branded the place with red lipstick letters that spell out ELIZABETH WAS HERE.
A string of curse words scroll like a news ticker through my brain. I mumble them under my breath as I start to gather as much of my dinner as I can as quickly as I can.
I cringe as I pick up a floppy piece of lettuce and move to put it back on the plate, only to be reminded that the plate is in a million pieces. I start to work on that next, going fast, aware that Walt is still hovering near the door, probably trying to rein in his anger.
He opened his home to me, and I absolutely took advantage of him. This is embarrassing. He’s going to think I was raised by wolves.
“You’re going to cut yourself,” he says with a hard tone.
“Yes, well, who cares?” I say without pausing my cleanup efforts. “I already damaged this rug yesterday, and now look at it. There’s mustard everywhere.”
“I’ve had it for years.”
I pinch my eyes closed. “Oh god, don’t tell me that.”
“I only meant…maybe it’s time for a new one. Would you please stop picking up porcelain shards with your bare hands? Look, you already nicked yourself twice.”
I glance down at the tiny cuts on my left hand. They’re only barely worse than a paper cut, and I can’t even feel them. I’m too hyper-focused on the blunder as he disappears, then returns a moment later with a few items clutched in his hands. He passes me two bandages, and I take them carefully so that I don’t touch him with my cut fingers.
“Thank you,” I say, unable to look him in the eye.
I’ll wash and clean up the cuts later, but for now, I apply the Band-Aids then hold my hand out for the other supplies he brought back with him: a small trash bag, a handheld broom, and a dustpan.
Instead of handing it all over, he bends down in front of me, fancy suit and all, and starts to help me clean up.
“Hold the bag open,” he instructs brusquely.
I do as I’m told so he can easily toss in everything he’s sweeping up off the floor and rug. He’s efficient with it, working in careful quadrants, trying to get every last piece of porcelain.
“I’d like to apologize…” I start sheepishly.
He doesn’t make any sound or confirmation that he’s heard me, but I still continue.
“I got a bit carried away in here while you were gone.”