Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
It’s a good thing that he’s a pro athlete with exceptional skills, and I’m basically a pro pickleballer. Our chemistry is off the charts, so we can get away with less practice than everybody else. I hope.
“I hate math,” Gus sings. His math packet is open on my coffee table, and he does occasionally glance down at it. But mostly his attention is on the sports talk show on the television that his dad turned on about an hour ago. “I really hate math.”
“Have you ever heard that you get more flies with honey than vinegar?” I ask Gus.
“No.”
“Well, it’s true.” I think. “But math kind of works the same way. If you bring a positive attitude, it gets easier.”
And I’m a hypocrite. I’ve tried to bring a positive attitude, which isn’t the same as optimism, to this situation with Jory and it hasn’t fixed a damn thing—or made it easier.
“Have you done any of it?” Jory asks from the couch. He’s dozed off and on all afternoon. “You’re not doing anything else until you finish a lesson.”
“That sucks,” Gus says sarcastically. “I was planning on going outside in the sunshine with my friends today. Guess I won’t do that.”
I tap him on the shoulder. “Don’t.”
He makes a face at me but does turn back to his work.
I pull up the bracket for the hundredth time and map out our path to the championship. We got a good draw with a bye for day one, so we should have one game on Thursday. Neither of the two teams playing each other before they get to us is all that great. I’ve played at least one player on both of them before and it’s not going to be a problem for me and Jory. We should go into Friday in the winner’s bracket and play two games. Game one will be a piece of cake. Game two, depending on how things shake out, could get tougher.
And then comes Saturday. The title game is at noon. And, unless they really botch their games, our opponents should be Jasper and Courtney.
I love it when a plan comes together.
Jory’s phone rings. He takes a look at the screen and then answers it. “Hello?” He listens and then sits upright, his face etched with concern. “What’s wrong?”
My stomach tightens as I watch his emotions drift across his features.
“Can you hang on a sec?” His brows pull together as he stands, looking at me. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
He walks through the kitchen and onto the back porch.
Gus groans. “Can we turn on something else now? This is boring.”
“You don’t like sports?” I ask, side-eyeing the door. “I thought you played all kinds of stuff.”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean I want to watch it all the time.”
I blow out a breath, wishing I could eavesdrop on Jory’s conversation. The way his tone changed and his demeanor stiffened, I know that something’s wrong. The shiver snaking down my spine cosigns my intuition.
“You’re not supposed to be watching television, anyway. The festival starts tomorrow and you don’t want to be in here for the rest of the week doing math, do you?”
He spins around, suddenly reengaged with the idea of actually doing his work. “So, what you’re saying is that if I do my work tonight, I can avoid this packet until Monday?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Why not? Four days won’t hurt you.”
“I love you, Markie.”
Wish your dad did, too, kid.
The thought comes out of nowhere before I can think it through—before I can decide whether I feel that way or if I’m just being dramatic. But it’s so natural, almost a given at this point, that there’s not much to argue.
I think I love him.
The floor tilts beneath my feet as I wrestle with that sentence. It’s terrifying and it makes me want to puke. And it’s so me of me to fall in love with a guy with no interest in staying in Sugar Creek … or with me for the long haul, it seems.
A swell of warmth, accompanied by a sharp pain, rises in my chest. I’ve fought this feeling since lunch at Lolly’s. It’s an emotional tightrope of wanting an answer—am I just your summer fling? Of wanting to tell him the truth—I love you, Jory. And of wanting to do the most Markie thing of all and cut him loose before any real, lasting damage can be done.
I usually have no problem doing that. See ya later, alligator. But I can’t justify having him in town for three or four more weeks and passing him in Miller’s and saying hi like I do with everyone else, because even I can’t act casually around a unicorn.
I just have to figure out how to enjoy these weeks and know it’s going to be over. Just try to minimize the destruction.