Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
No. Not going to do it. Gotta keep things professional. I’m not his friend.
But I could be.
He said he has none. That he’s difficult. Lonely.
Can’t I relate to that? Aren’t I also difficult sometimes? And lonely?
I even felt lonely while I was with Theo. The two of us in bed, on our phones, ignoring each other until one of us springs a boner. Even then, we would sometimes take care of our needs on our own, like it was a task to do, like it was just laundry. We didn’t have sex nearly as often as anyone assumed. Weeks would go by where I was barely touched. I’d grow so maddeningly frustrated.
Maybe River is frustrated.
Before I know it, I’m driving past the bungalow on my way home, coming to a stop at the intersection near it.
“Nope,” I say out loud, driving on. “Not doing it.”
I go to bed that night with a pesky boner I keep trying to ignore. But every time I turn over in my sheets, it comes back to life like a panting puppy desperate to be petted and played with. Eventually I slip out of bed in just my briefs, pad out of the bedroom and down the hall, then stand at the window of the game room to glare at the distant bungalow.
I can see light spilling out of the back windows. Is he still awake like I am at two in the morning? Or does River sleep with lights on?
The next day is no better. I’m still thinking about him as I work in my dad’s office, sorting files and pulling out old promotions and advertisements we ran years ago that worked, searching for some new angles and ideas to try. Each time I swing by the kitchen to grab a drink or pick-me-up snack, my eyes find the bungalow in the window.
And another day goes by that I don’t visit him.
It’s nearly four days later that I find myself at the Fair restocking one of the game kiosks with plushie prizes—the guy working it chewing my ear off about a group of loud, whiny teens who accused him of rigging the game because they couldn’t aim a plastic dart at a balloon—when I catch sight of a guy in a fitted leather jacket, baseball cap, and shades across the way. He’s perusing the souvenir stand.
I literally stop what I’m doing and stare. Is that River? Did he come out of his bungalow finally to see what our Fair is all about? He’s not glancing my way, so I can’t get a good look at his face. Who else could it be? The shades, of course I understand, the sun is eye-annihilating. But to be wearing a leather jacket? That has to feel like an oven.
Then Heather appears right in front of me, eclipsing my view. “Don’t we have stockers for this?” she asks less than kindly.
“I sent her home early,” I say distractedly, stretching to peer around my sister so as not to lose sight of him, but now there’s a big-ass family passing by, too, and each and every one of their six children have balloons. “Saving on payroll. I can finish her remaining tasks.”
“Why so stingy? Staff is already barebones as it is.”
The last thing I need is to open the can of worms that is our family legacy’s impending doom—and also I promised Dad I wouldn’t tell my sisters just yet—so I mumble out a vague, “It’s no big deal, Heather, I’ve got this. Wasn’t busy with anything else.”
“Or anyone else.”
I squint at her. “The hell does that mean?”
She rolls her eyes, then continues on with whatever her duty is, tablet tucked under her arm. And when the family and everything else clears away, River is gone.
Or rather, the guy I’m pretty sure was River.
Somewhat sure.
A minute later, I’m in the office by the Ferris Wheel. Heather busily combs through a filing cabinet. “Heather—”
“Did our weird anonymous tenant seriously break into the rental because the key didn’t work?” she cuts me off.
I had a big ol’ speech prepared about her giving me attitude over my breakup with Theo and how exceedingly unfair it is that she not take my side, and every last word of that speech escapes into an alternate dimension, never to be thought of again.
She plucks out a folder and shuts the cabinet, returning to her desk. “I thought you were the one always checking up on that tired old place. Doing the upkeep during its dead months. Never noticed the front door lock was sticking?”
“Brooke had just used the key that same morning.”
“Theo would’ve noticed.” She pulls her glasses down from her nest of hair to her nose, reading the opened file. “Would’ve been on top of that, changed the lock, given the house a fresh paintjob before the guest even arrived …”