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)
“Isn’t the same as seeing it live. In the flesh. From the second row. With your own …” He turns his head toward me, looking me up and down. “… eyes.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I don’t get drunk. I get fun.” He sighs. “Or so says Connie.”
“That your sister?”
“Yep. My one and only. One of my birthdays, she came from outta town, it was a whole surprise thing, and after two rounds of shots at Tumbleweeds, she said I was the funnest I’ve ever been. Funnest? That a word? Most funnerest. Most fun?” He laughs at himself, then pauses. “Wait, how’d you know Connie’s my sister?”
I stare blankly at the road. “Lucky guess.”
He gives it another second of thought, then lets it go and curls up like a cat in his seat, tugging on the seatbelt. “We play chess on an online app. I let her win. Every game.” He yawns, rubs his face, droops his head back again. “She doesn’t know.”
I frown. “Why?”
“It’s easier that way. Everything’s easier that way.”
I leave it alone. Debating the rights and wrongs of letting your sister believe she’s a secret chess grandmaster isn’t a battle worth waging on four-to-five glasses of wannabe moonshine.
The drive home is way longer than I thought, especially in the dark. Starting to think calling those rich folks “Spruce residents” is either a local joke or this town’s borders stretch ten counties.
But then we’re in his driveway, and the car’s off.
And Wyatt’s sound-the-fuck asleep.
I nudge him once. Twice.
Nothing.
I get out of the car and come around, opening his door. I undo his seatbelt, scoop him into my arms, kick shut the door, and head to his front porch. The door’s unlocked—I swear, Wyatt, I just don’t get you—so I manage to get it open without dropping him, shove my way inside, bump it shut behind me, and hunt for his bed.
I lay him down gently.
And of course it’s then that he squirms, squeezes an eye open, mumbles, “Sexy kitten, doin’ your thing, mmm, butter that bread,” and immediately passes back out.
I stare.
The fuck was that?
I take hold of his shoes and pop them off one by one, setting them on the floor by the bed. Then I sit him up, slide his limp-ass limbs out of his jacket. Undo his tie, gently tug it off his neck. Fold all that up, place the stack on a chair by his closet.
I catch sight of a piece of paper on his nightstand. His grocery list. The hell’s his grocery list doing by the bed? Eggs. Skim milk. Lunch meat. Bread. Bananas. Arthritis cream. Dog food.
Wait, dog food? Wyatt doesn’t own a dog.
Arthritis cream?
Is this someone else’s list? Does Wyatt get groceries for some sweet old lady down the street?
Why do I instantly believe that’s exactly the case?
I leave him to sleep and head for the door, only to stop at the sight of dirty dishes on the counter. When I approach, there’s also smudged glasses in the sink, one still rimmed at the bottom with orange juice. Really, Wyatt?
The sight of it is so annoying, I peel off my jacket, fling it over a nearby chair, roll up my sleeves, and nudge the faucet on. After a minute of scrubbing and rinsing—for real, it’s that easy, Wyatt—the dishes are sitting in the dish drainer.
That’s when I notice the trash bin.
Full to the top and overflowing with leaves, stems, and other discarded plant parts. What the hell, Wyatt?
So I’m on that nonsense, too. Hunt for bags in the cupboards under the counters. Find them in a cramped laundry closet by the door leading to the garage. Lavender-scented bags. Gross. Change out the trash. Decide lavender isn’t so bad actually. Haul the trash to a red-topped bin outside, swing it in, head back inside to wash my hands.
Then I’m at the bedroom door.
Wyatt is still exactly as I left him. Even with one hand over his chest like he’s pledging allegiance to the flag.
He doesn’t snore.
As if even in his sleep, he’s afraid to take up too much space.
To make too much noise.
Disturb the bushes outside his window.
I find a blanket sitting on a cushy ottoman-thing in the corner of his room, green-and-black checkered, feels like soft fleece. I put it over him, covering him to the neck. He still doesn’t move, even a little bit, breathing so softly I can barely hear it.
“Night, flower boy,” I say just as quietly, then go.
My house feels different when I’m back in it, less cold, empty, and judgy. More warm. Patient. Even the orchid, which calmly sits there in the dark, no complaints. And when I look out the window, Wyatt’s house feels different, too. Like it’s closer somehow.
I go to sleep in my clothes, figuring I’ll shower in the morning, like Wyatt. Has nothing to do with wanting tonight to stick around a little longer.