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)
Wyatt shifts a little, slipping down my chest.
I panic for half a second before catching him. He lets out the tiniest moan before settling his head in my lap, turned away from the TV now, face nuzzled in my crotch like a cat finding warmth.
I don’t move. Hands hovering in the air over him.
Unsure what to do.
The movie continues, but now neither of us are watching it. I finally set one hand on his shoulder, then take the phone with my other. I text Henrietta one-handed that I’ve got a key, so she can just lock up and get the fuck out.
Minus the “get the fuck out” part.
She replies that the showings went well.
Not sure how to feel about that.
She’ll be in touch, she tells me.
I give a thumbs up reaction, then set my phone aside, peering down at Wyatt as he gently breathes in my lap, lips parted slightly, legs twisted up, one curled, one hanging halfway off the couch.
I don’t want to call this adorable.
Or sweet.
It’s actually uncomfortable. And I don’t know what to do. And I keep feeling like I need to get out of here before he wakes up.
The next second, I want to stay right here.
Don’t want this to ever end.
I suddenly realize I’m gently stroking his back. The second it occurs to me, I stop. Then I start again, wondering why I stopped—and why I started in the first place.
Why can I handle Wyatt naked beneath my body, but not fully clothed cuddled into my lap on his couch?
I close my eyes, forget the movie, and throw my head back.
His couch is infuriatingly comfortable. Every inch of its soft, smooth surface like a goddamned hug. Even the cushion my head is sinking into. Even the way the couch cradles my ass.
Cradles us.
Something suddenly bothers me about people walking around inside the house earlier. Poking at my tía’s decorations in the hall. Or my tío’s little enhancements everywhere, like the light fixture over the table, or the sliding door in the back, or the curtain rods.
Walking past my potted orchid with their judging looks.
Sniffing around the back garden that I’ve not even seen.
Asking Henrietta about the wildflowers in the front.
Planning already to tear them out.
To gut the house, rip out its soul, erase its memories, plant all of their own like a fresh batch of boring-as-fuck rosebushes.
I hate each and every last one of them suddenly.
Maybe I ought to thank Henrietta for scaring them all away. Or request she cast some kind of hex on future buyers instead of actually doing her job.
Then I pop my eyes open.
Why the hell am I wishing for this shit to happen? Don’t I want the house to sell? Isn’t the point to get this over with, fix my dad’s car, and get the hell out of here?
Even if I still haven’t decided where I’m heading next?
I don’t know why it’s the first time I’ve had this thought, but suddenly thinking about where I’m off to next is sounding less like running toward something and more like running away.
Wyatt chooses that exact moment to shift his arms, cling to me tighter, mumble something that sounds like, “Very good, very good,” before settling back into sleep.
I close my eyes again and lay my head back.
Then, when I’m absolutely sure no one on earth can see me, I let myself smile.
—21—
Wyatt
I wake up with my face buried in Diego’s crotch.
I don’t realize this for a few seconds.
But when I do, I twist my neck and look up, finding Diego’s head lolled back on the couch, deep breaths drawing in and out, filling the whole house.
It’s still dark.
The TV is off. I’m guessing the movie finished and the TV did its polite little “Are you still watching?” courtesy prompt before auto-shutting off. Ah, technology.
I don’t know if Diego’s comfortable like that. Or if he’s gonna wake up with a crick in his neck worse than what Jacky-Ann gave me at the flower shop. But something about the peace and quiet of the house mixed with the gentle rush and pull of Diego’s breaths hypnotizes my face right back into his lap, and I drift off again.
Second time I wake up, sunlight’s in my face, and I’m alone on the couch. The throw pillow has been tucked under my head, and my maroon Game of Thrones blanket is covering me with the words “Hear me roar” stitched at the top, hitting my eyes before I realize I’m even awake.
Then I smell burnt toast.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and spot Diego in the kitchen. He’s at my pantry door, appearing in the middle of a quest figuring out my admittedly confusing sense of organization.
I get up and come to the kitchen. “Toast burning?”
My question startles him. He turns to the toaster. “Fuck.” He ditches whatever he was looking for in the pantry and fetches the unsalvageable bread. Something’s sizzling on the stove, too. Eggs. He grabs the handle and brings it to the table where a couple of plates are sitting. “Hope you like well-done,” he says—I’m not sure if he’s joking—then serves us a couple plates of eggs and toast with a side of ham lunchmeat I keep for late-night sandwich cravings.