Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
This time, however, I live in a section of Sapphire Shores that would never grace the cover of Travel & Leisure— right off Route One, in a piece of crap condo complex that’s sandwiched between a gas station and Ted’s, a place that sells the crappiest pizza known to man.
Not exactly a step up, but I’ve got a shitload of loans to pay, and it was between this or a roach-infested rental with a cat-piss scented front porch.
Before I get home, I stop to pick up an entire pie from said crappy next-door pizza place, inhale half the thing in my truck because I haven’t eaten all day, then I head inside to finish unpacking.
Everything’s exactly where I left it—the downfall of living alone.
My two-bedroom apartment has a single bathroom, up a steep, twisting staircase, and a kitchen with puke-green linoleum and appliances to match. It has a basement with laundry and some sad excuse for a gym, the place drafty and in desperate need of patching and maintenance. Yesterday, I went down there and found a snow drift on the weight bench. After tightly packing a few snowballs in my hands, I chucked them into the nearby utility sink and felt like a kid for all of two point five seconds.
Then it was back to reality.
Throwing the pizza box down on the counter, I head to the fridge, crack open a Sea Dog, and check my phone, re-reading Stassi’s message for the millionth time.
I still can’t believe she replied.
But Houlihan’s? People still go there? Or is she hoping I’ll go there and get my ass mugged? There’s no real dangerous part of Portland, but that’s probably the closest thing to it.
That’s probably it.
She wants me dead.
I’m trying to think of something halfway witty to say, but nothing comes.
Jesus, you’d think by now I would’ve outgrown the plague of always getting tongue-tied around her.
I decide to test her.
DocMansfield: I’m working the ER until 9 tomorrow. Meet you after?
Her response comes before I can even put my phone down. She must be online.
SHutton07: I didn’t send that message. My friend did. I don’t have any interest in seeing you.
I smirk.
There’s the Stassi I remember.
DocMansfield: Harsh. Can I ask why?
Pretty sure I know exactly why, but getting her to engage with me is half the battle, and I never lose.
SHutton07: You don’t know?
DocMansfield: Should I? It’s been ten years. Lost track of your brothers years ago. How was I supposed to know you still had a bone to pick with me?
SHutton07: More than one bone. An insurmountable amount of bones actually. More bones than a person has time to pick, so …
DocMansfield: Really? That many bones? Are they big bones or little bones?
SHutton07: A multitude of sizes, but you should already know that being a medical doctor and all.
DocMansfield: My memory’s a little foggy in my older age—care to get specific with some of these bones? Maybe start with the biggest and go from there?
SHutton07: Sure. Two words: Yours Cruelly.
I shove half a slice of greasy, mostly-raw-dough pizza into my mouth and frown.
So she does remember.
It’s a blur, those days spread among a full course-load of AP classes, serving as captain of the hockey team and clocking volunteer hours loaning skates at the rink, all the while trying to make myself look stellar enough to join the ranks of those at MIT, but of all those extracurriculars, my favorite had been one I couldn’t put on my college application: tormenting the cute little sister of my two best friends, Aidan and Cooper Hutton.
Before Anastasia Hutton caught my eye her freshman year, she’d been nothing more than an annoying gnat that got in the way of our video games, always shouting, “I want to play,” and grabbing for the controllers.
My parents were strict as hell and wouldn’t let me have a game system when I was supposed to be studying for my future doctorhood, so I saw the Hutton’s bratty kid sister as the one thing standing in the way of my only means of escape.
All of that changed over the course of one summer though.
I’d spent the second half of summer break in Europe with my grandparents, returning the week before my junior year of high school kicked off. As an early birthday present, my parents surprised me with a jet-black BMW 327—the wet dream car of every guy my age.
The plan was that I’d drive the boys to school and we’d be the talk of Sapphire Shores High. When my parents suggested I also give the little sister a ride since she was an incoming freshman, I said, in no uncertain terms, “Hell no.”
Knowing how risk-averse my parents tended to be, I managed to convince them Stassi would be a safety issue, that she’d be messing with the radio buttons to distract me and trying to stick her head out the sunroof, so they let it go and never brought it up again.