Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Whit does it again just to prove my point.
I have to practically shove him out of the car. “Okay, go, before we do a whole lot more in front of your family.”
“Okay, okay.” He gets all his hockey gear out of the back and gives me a wave.
I have a ridiculous smile on my face the whole way back to town. It’s still there while I fill up the Fiat’s gas tank and when I arrive on my cousin’s doorstep to return the key.
Sommer opens the door with a scowl on her face. “Why are men such dicks?”
My face falls. “Umm, I’m sorry for my species as a whole?”
“You mean gender?”
“No, no, I think it’s pretty clear we’re a completely different species.”
She scoffs. “No arguments here.” She’s in a tank top and sleep pants with a blanket wrapped around her. Her dark hair is in a messy bun, and when I say messy, it’s a bird’s nest. Her nose is all red, and her eyes are puffy like she’s been crying.
“What happened?” I ask.
She steps aside to let me in. “Coffee?”
I check my phone. “I have some time.” There’s still an hour before I need to be at the bar for my shift. “What did he do? I want to say … Tim?” That old saying, changing boyfriends more than underwear? That’s my cousin in a nutshell. It’s hard to keep track.
She huffs. “Thyme.”
I purse my lips. “Like as in the clock or the herb?”
“The herb.”
“Was it always Thyme, or was there a Tim in there somewhere?”
“Rainn,” she complains.
“Sommer,” I whine back. “You should know the rules. Never date someone named after herbs or spices. Anything food related, really. Kale especially. The food is as evil as anyone who’s named after it.”
“Yes, well, people could say the same about us. Never date people named after the weather.”
“We’re spelled differently,” I argue. “Though, that is a fair point. We’re both kind of fucked-up. What were our mothers thinking?”
“In their defense, I don’t think it’s our names that make us fucked-up.”
I snort. “True.”
Our families have a relatively normal level of dysfunction, and our childhoods couldn’t have been more cookie-cutter. I guess my issues popped up around the same time as my injury, but I don’t know why Sommer struggles so much.
“Speaking of fucked up, how’s my car?” she asks.
“Tiny.”
“I mean, were there any problems? I’m not going to find a major dent the next time I drive?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
“And thanks. I should be able to get my own again soon.” I take a seat at her kitchen counter while Sommer flits around to make us coffee.
“So what was so important about some hockey game last night?”
Before, when I told Whit that my cousin was cool, I didn’t really think about how I would actually tell her that I’m seeing a guy. And now that the moment is here, I can see why so many people struggle to come out.
It’s not so much the words, or what they mean, but how I’m supposed to say them.
She pours me a cup and hands it over.
“I’m …” I croak. Nope, that didn’t come out right. I take a sip of coffee and try again. “I’m kinda dating someone on the team.” Dating, hooking up … same thing.
I can’t really say Whit and I are dating when we haven’t had an actual date. Then again, I think back to all those nights we’d watched movies at my place. The dinner I took him to for his birthday. Friend dates. Do they count?
“You went to a woman’s hockey game?”
I subtly shake my head. “Uh. No.”
It takes her a few seconds, but then her eyes widen. “Really? No … really? When you took the job at Vino and Veritas, I thought you were being progressive and cool.”
“Hey, I am progressive and cool. I, uh, didn’t think I’d actually meet someone I’d connect with while working there.”
“I have to know everything,” she gushes. “What’s his name?”
“Whit.”
“Okay, you can’t judge me for dating a guy named Thyme.”
“His actual name is Leighton, but his last name is Whitaker.”
She pauses. “Wait. Campbell Whitaker’s brother?”
“Uh, yeah. You know Campbell?”
“I’m friends with his fiancée, Christie.”
“Small world.” Getting smaller by the minute.
“Are you going to the wedding next month?”
“Umm, Whit hasn’t even mentioned it.”
“But you’re dating him?”
“We’re …” Umm … A label would come in handy right about now, but I’ve got nothing. “New.” Yes, that works. “Everything is new.”
“Oh, then I’m sure the invite is coming. Or not. Who knows with guys? Now that you’re dating men too, we can trade horror stories.”
“Man. Just one man, and so far it’s been awesome. He bought me breakfast this morning.”
“Well, wait, because that never lasts long.” She’s too young and pretty—messy hair not withstanding—to be bitter.
“I’m sorry again,” I say. “Men are all sucky.”
I’m not lying. Whit and I have definitely been getting sucky, just not in the way she’s thinking.