Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“It’s where I stash the bodies.” He pauses for laughter. There’s none. “My, uh … dad. He had hobbies. The garage is where they’re all ‘coexisting’, we’ll call it. I never go out there. There’s probably a hundred brown recluses lurking between his things, I don’t want to press my luck just to poke around some hubcap collection.”
I look back at him. “Hubcap collection?”
“Seriously, don’t go into the garage. It’s so awful.”
“He collected hubcaps …?”
“Among many odd things. Exhaust pipes. Old gas tanks.” Then he stops and smacks his head. “Oh, crap, I just made it even more interesting. I forgot you’re into cars. Just forget I said anything.”
“Well, now I can’t.”
“Didn’t I mention the brown recluses? If you want something interesting to look at, you should see my greenhouse. It’s a total vibe. Especially when it’s raining like this.” He stops suddenly and peers at me. “Wanna … see it?”
I stop, too, towel dangling from my hands.
Would it be weird if I told him I already have seen it through a slit in the backyard fence a few nights ago?
I shrug.
That’s my way of saying: sure.
He understands.
I’m not sure whether the soup is still warming up or he just ditched it altogether, but Wyatt leads me through the house and out the back door. His patio is a small rectangular cement slab that is covered by a slanted tin roof—loud as hell when it’s raining—but leads right into a greenhouse that has the opposite effect. Second we step inside, the rain is muffled and soft. It’s more spacious in here than it seemed with a distant glance through the fence.
Wyatt launches right into introducing every plant.
They have names. Like Harold. Sally.
Mortimer.
His voice is refreshingly calm, even if I don’t really catch any of what he’s saying. I just follow him slowly around the table in the center, nodding, watching his lips move, seeing the light in his eyes every time he gets excited. He’s about to trip over a bag of soil as he talks on and on, not paying attention to his feet, so I slip past him and tug it out of the way. “Oh, thanks,” he says, then just carries on.
I notice one of the shelves is crooked and give it a little nudge. Still crooked. When I notice Wyatt’s stopped talking, I give him a look. “I’ll bring my tools next time. To even out the shelf. So your vine thingy here doesn’t fall off if you bump into this.”
Wyatt blinks. “Next time …?”
I freeze.
Was that weird? To assume he’d invite me over again?
I shrug. “If you want.”
After a minute, he nods, then says, “Her name’s Rapunzel. The ‘vine thingy’. Because of the … the long vines. Get it?”
I don’t. But I nod like I do, then gently nudge the plant away from the edge so it isn’t so close.
I don’t realize my hand is resting on the counter below. Right where he’s got his own. Our fingers graze.
I look at him at once, like he just shocked me or something.
He looks back, appearing just as startled.
Our bodies are close again.
Unless he’s counting on something happening out here in this cute little greenhouse of his, he’s got to be less reckless about where he puts his hands and how close he gets that face of his.
“Minestrone’s ready,” he says.
I nod, eye contact not breaking.
It seems difficult for him to pull away from me. But he does. I give Rapunzel another look—Oh, right, the vines are like long hair, like Rapunzel’s—then follow him back to the house.
Cut to the two of us at a small table. Too small. He sits on one side. Me, the other. But there’s barely any space between us, we might as well be sitting in each other’s laps.
The aroma of the soup hits me like I haven’t eaten all day.
Come to think of it, I haven’t.
Skipped lunch, it having rained the whole damned day and all.
“Focaccia,” he explains with a gesture at the plate of bread in the middle of the table between our bowls. “I made it. Soup, too. Italian grandparents, mom’s side, I was doomed to inherit recipes. Thanks, Nonna,” he adds with a cute shrug.
I can barely hold back a second longer before I take a whole mouthful.
Next second, I’m coughing and hissing as it scalds my tongue.
He chuckles at me. “Should’ve blown on it first.”
“Who’s got time for that? I’m hungry.” But when I go for my next bite, I take his advice.
He watches me for a moment, a little curl in his lips, before he starts to enjoy his own bowl. This is some seriously tasty soup.
I shift my foot, about to tell him how damned tasty this is—and accidentally step on his.
He notices, flinches, then says, “Sorry.”
Of course he’d apologize when I was the one who stepped on his foot. “It’s fine,” I mumble, confused.