Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
But right now, it’s just me, and the photos. As Corbin pedals like the wind, I start with the furniture, showing him pics of the chairs and tables I’ve been scoping out, along with some baking equipment, including a few items we can snag used. He looks closely, checking each one, offering some suggestions, asking questions, then picking favorites from among mine.
“That was easy enough,” I say with a smile.
“It was.”
After I tuck the tablet away, I take out the paint chips, carefully setting them on the bike console, then I lean over, pointing to each one. “This is Morning Mist, but they should just call it salmon pink. This is I’m A Showgirl, but it’s really neon, like the couch in the bookstore. Here is Cherry Blossom, like the cake I made at the romance fair. We’ve also got a pastel pink called Blush. Then this peachy one is Sunrise Mist.”
The only sound in the room as he studies them is the mechanical whoosh of the bike until he finally looks up. “The names don’t really matter,” he observes.
“Right, right. That’s just marketing. I know I kind of bulldozed you with the name of the shop, but I want this to be collaborative.” I speak with all the enthusiasm I feel for the process and for working with him. Which is…gobs.
“Sure,” he says, with a nod, squinting at the squares of color as his breath comes faster. I steal a glance at the console. He’s logged seventeen minutes already.
I’m glad he’s studying the paint chips so carefully. It even feels as if he’s spending as long staring at the colors here as Remy, Skylar, and I did at the paint store.
“Which one do you like best?” I ask.
He’s pedaling hard as he looks back at me. “Honestly?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“They all look gray to me. You pick,” he says.
His tone is warm, friendly. But I’m a little lost. “Gray? Does that mean—”
He lets go of the bike handle to place a warm palm on my arm, as if he’s reassuring me. “I’m color-blind. You should pick.”
I part my lips to speak, then hesitate. I don’t know what to say. I had no idea. Have I been railroading him about color too? Or teasing him unfairly? I replay our interactions, like last week in Cozy Valley when I asked about the couch and he seemed uninterested, then to the day I tended to his scratch and joked about the color. I feel a little queasy about that one. “Was that rude when I said You’re in love with your gray shirt?”
“No,” he says. “Gray matches everything. It’s easier.”
“True, and that’s part of the beauty of gray. But I don’t want to be a dick. When I asked about the neon pink couch, and when I said pink was the best color—have I been excluding you?” I really hope not, but I worry I might have been.
He laughs, shaking his head, his forehead shiny from sweat. “You would have had no way of knowing, except you noticed I wear a lot of gray.”
“But you can see gray?”
He seesaws his hand. “Definitely. But some pinks often look gray, and some blues do too. I have red-green color-blindness, which means red and green look sort of brownish or dull and pale-ish. And a lot of blues kind of blend together.”
“So a lot of colors are basically muted?”
He seems to give that a second or two of thought, then nods. “That’s a fair way to put it.”
My mind is a little blown. Of course, I’m aware of color-blindness, but I don’t think I’ve known anyone who is color-blind, or thought hard about how it must be for them to navigate life, and traffic lights, and fashion, and sports.
“Does it affect how you play?”
Obviously, it doesn’t. He’s an elite athlete and has been for more than a decade. But still, I’m so curious how he works around it.
“When I was younger, yes, but only for practice when you’re in different colors and you need to figure out who’s on your team. But not now. The team knows, and I’ve asked the coaches to always put my line in white practice jerseys, so I never have to wonder who’s on my line. There are at least a couple of other pro hockey players I’m aware of who have color-blindness.”
“White is easy for you to see?”
“Yes. It’s a high contrast color.”
“And what about for games?”
“Teams usually face each other in alternating dark or light jerseys, so that’s not really a problem.”
“That’s good then. And smart for practice too,” I say, picturing how it could be easier for those who might not be able to see the fine differences in shades of shirts.
He just shrugs, as if to say, It is what it is. And I suppose, it is for him.