Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“So warned.” He clears his throat, and I know—just fucking know—he’s laughing up his sleeve. But he’s suddenly serious. “You’re forgetting that Pen is shy.”
My moving feet come to a stop as his words sink in. Frowning, I stare out at the skyline just beyond my house. Pen is shy. I know this. But I’ve started to see her differently, haven’t I? She doesn’t act shy with me. For most things. But when it comes to romantic relationships? Maybe . . .
“Huh,” I say thoughtfully.
“Right,” March says. “Shy in that she doesn’t see herself properly. She thinks she’s second fiddle when she’s first chair.”
Little known fact: March played violin in the school orchestra from first grade to high school graduation.
“Not only that,” he goes on. “She tends to overthink things—like someone else I know. Which means she’s not going to view your sad attempts at flirting as anything other than you just playing around.”
I’ll ignore the “sad attempts” for now. Grabbing an energy drink, I sit on the bench and think. Because March is right on one big point: I haven’t been considering Pen’s lack of belief in her own appeal. She always laughs it off, as though I’m joking, when I say she turns me on.
“You’ve got to be crystal clear with her,” March says in the silence. “Tell her you’ve been a shortsighted, sexually confused—”
“That’s not how you use that term.”
“—horn-bro who has no interest in being a fake-ass fiancé. That what you really want to do is be her devoted love god.”
“Poetic,” I deadpan.
“It’s true. I slay.”
Outside, the sky is starting to yellow, the cradle of mountains on either side of me dimming to dark brown.
“March.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Pen.”
He waits a beat.
“I know. Ain’t no coming back from that.”
“Yeah.”
There’s nothing more to say. Only action counts now.
Pen
Pickle: You doing anything?
The message comes in just as I finish up my cinematography paper discussing the utterly gorgeous use of light and shadow in the 1932 film, Shanghai Express, starring Marlene Dietrich. I’d been curled up in the den watching the black-and-white film, while writing down my thoughts.
Pen: sitting here wondering why I didn’t go into cinematography
This film, for me, is all about beauty—the actors, the shadows and light. I’m keyed up with an urge to create something—anything—as beautiful as the artfully lit glory that is Dietrich and Anna May Wong in that film. Unfortunately, I got nothing. And, despite my quip to August, I don’t really want to go into the business.
Pickle: Watching old movies again
It’s not framed as a question. A smile teases my lips. Classic movies are from a world outdated and wrong in many ways. For good or ill, they’re also windows to the past. I focus on the artistic beauty of them, the stunning clothes, and fabulous interiors. The dialog is always snappy and quick, and the storylines, once you get past the slower bygone pacing, are often better than we have now.
Pen: maybe
Pickle: You are
Pen: shows what you know. I just finished
Pickle: There you go being pedantic again.
Grinning now, I pack up my laptop and put away my bag before stretching out on my back. My day has been going pretty well, but now? This man turns a light on inside me and I find myself glowing.
My heart does a happy dance—the cha-cha or something equally ridiculous. I tell myself to be cool as I text him.
Pen: are you texting just to bust my chops or do you have an ulterior motive?
Pickle: When you pull out the grandma talk, I’m going to assume you want me in the worst way.
I roll my eyes. But he isn’t entirely wrong. I think I’ll always want August Luck. It’s a problem. Not that he needs to know this.
Pen: you know what they say about assuming
Pickle: Only do it with a friend?
( . . . )
Pickle: Heh. No? Ok I was trying to ask if you wanted to hang out
Was he? Glancing back at our texts, I flush as I read them. I’d answered him literally. God, I really am a pedantic grandma. But he’s still here, and he seems to like my ways just fine.
I had always wondered what it would be like for August to be fully aware of me, but never in my imagining had I expected it to feel this good. Not just good but easy. It’s as though there are now two worlds: the outside one, and the society of Us. And though I may enjoy venturing outside from time to time, when I’m with him, my world is complete.
The realization makes me slightly breathless and afraid, like I’m teetering on the high crest of a roller coaster, about to plummet. If being with August can make me feel this good, how bad will I feel if he’s not in my life?