Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“The hundred thousand?”
Jack tidies his bag up, packing his supplies away, and then he strips off his gloves, bags them in a fresh plastic bag, and tucks them inside. I hope he burns them after. They have my DNA on them. Not that I’m paranoid. Or that he is. He could have just thrown them in the trash can in here.
“That and the million you told me to donate. Less one dollar,” I amend.
Ephemeral’s right eye starts to twitch. And not just little twitches either. “Has anyone ever told you how perfectly and insufferably precise you can be?”
“You mean logical?”
“I mean—”
“That’ll be four thousand and eighteen dollars,” Jack states as he stands up, imposing and tall as a statue. “Cash preferred.”
Ephemeral gasps. I reach into my backpack’s front pocket, take out a handful of bills, and put them on the table. “Thank you so much for the quick response time and the incredible work. It’s very much appreciated.”
He picks up the bills, tucks them into a new plastic bag from his big black bag, zips the money in, straightens himself up even taller, and lets himself out.
“What a strange man,” Ephemeral whispers, pursing her lips. “He didn’t even acknowledge Peach Lips once.”
“Maybe he’s not a cat person,” I suggest.
“He looks more like a dead doctor than a live one.”
“He was a little pale and stern, I’ll give you that.”
“I was talking more about his bedside manner. Tableside. Busside. Whatever. Do private visits always cost that much?” Ephemeral asks.
“It depends on what’s being done. I think that was quite steep, but as I said, his response time was excellent.”
She shivers. “About the list—”
“Would you possibly go on a date with me?”
She clutches the list, her knuckles whitening, her fingers digging little dents into the page. It quivers as she slowly lowers it and looks at me over the top. “Like a day and time where we allocate funding for this?”
“Not at all, although I would like to do that. A real date. Something…fun.”
“You say that word like it’s rotten fish.”
Her face says that word like it’s rotten everything.
“Rotten fish does have a taste and smell like nothing else. Am I really that bad?” I can feel the first telltale creep of anxiety clawing up my throat. I knew the answer would probably be no if I asked, so I told myself I wouldn’t. I just wanted to come and make sure Ephemeral was doing okay. It’s my need to look after everyone that I find so consuming because I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t let her go. The impulsive question came out of the locked-down part of me that fears a double rejection.
“It’s not that you’re bad. You’re not…bad at all.” She puts the list on the counter and stares me down. “Fun could include hobbies you enjoy. Like breaking dishes, throwing axes, shooting targets, uh…tasering—okay, I’m stopping.” She giggles and coughs, the sound bursting out of her. “I’m stopping. It’s not funny. But are there like, bodyguard games or something? Like the Olympics, where you compete in different events.”
“Not that I know of, but maybe I should organize it. Or maybe not. It seems like a horrible idea.”
She nods, twisting her hands in front of her cherry-red dress with bright pink cat faces all over it. Her shoes today are platform again, big and blocky with pink and orange flowers. Her hair is curled, and she has a flowered scarf in the same cheerful print as the shoes. She looks like a seventies poster child today, and my god, my breath arrests for the hundredth time since I saw her again.
“We don’t live in the same city. You’re busy, and I’m just starting out with school. I never wanted to do long distance. The right tools for the job include being in the same place at the same time and having the time to begin with.”
“I understand,” I force out while my throat closes, and my stomach gets sucker punched repeatedly by disappointment. Should I just give up? I want to respect her and not push her, but is getting up and leaving the right thing to do? “I was busy. The height of busy. But I’m taking a break.”
Her eyebrows wriggle when she frowns. It’s one of my favorite things about her. That and the adorable identical dimples when she smiles deeply. As well as about a thousand other things, physical and otherwise.
“For how long?” she reluctantly asks.
“Three months minimum. I want to spend it with my family and the people I care about. I want to look up some old friends. People from my past. You were right. There’s more to all of this than just grappling for the next foothold or trying to merge with companies that don’t want to see the amazing things we’ve done and could do in the future. I have beyond a great team, and I’m not alone in building it. We’re a sort of family, and that matters, but I want more. It was missing. I see that now. I want to learn how to do other things. Like bake cookies. I don’t just want you because you’re beautiful on the outside. I want to know you. I want to know you and understand you. I want to respect you.”