Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
And our daily check-ins?
Painfully. Short.
Like here’s thirty seconds of a trailer to see if you want to give this show a shot type of short.
Tomorrow will be the first time we’ve even been under the same roof.
Which isn’t my fault!
Okay.
It isn’t completely my fault.
But like…
Maybe it is?
Maybe it isn’t?
Maybe I’m totally in the wrong.
Or maybe he is.
Ugh.
This absolutely qualifies as a phone a bestie debate; however, I don’t want to talk about this shit with Aly or Kira – who we managed to convince that night that we weren’t fighting when we clearly, we were.
Or were we?
Are we?
Frustration lands on my shoulders at the same time I dramatically flop into my office chair.
I want a coffee.
I want a peppermint mocha with homemade whip cream and crushed candies on top.
I want someone to bring it to me because they know it’s cold outside and I’m too busy to leave and would really appreciate a pick me up because it’s my winter favorite.
And by someone I – of course – mean Jukes.
Coffee is one of his love language dialects, and I haven’t heard it in days.
When he’s been on the road in the past, he’d wake up extra early to sip a cup with me while I got ready for work or was on my way in, so we still had that part of our routine together; however, lately, we haven’t.
He’s had extra goalie practice.
Or footage review seshes.
Or gone to breakfast with Wahl.
Coffee together has become at most an afterthought he attaches to his good morning and have a good day text.
I hate it and this and that I’m pretty sure it’s all my fault.
“Here.” Rhonnie unexpectedly places an LMC cup on the edge of my desk close to my Dalvegan Dragons charity calendar and nieces as well as nephew’s school photos. “You could probably use a shot of tequila, but this is the best a bitch can do for now.” She waits until my gaze lifts to hers to add. “You. Look. Rough.”
“Thanks,” sassily escapes alongside me reaching for the beverage. “For the coffee. Not the insult.”
“Mmmhm,” she brushes off without hesitation, “go on and call him.”
“Call who?”
“You know who.”
I do know who, but how does she know who?!
I haven’t mentioned we’re fighting or disagreeing or breaking up…Ohmygod are we breaking up?
Is this shit like a spinoff of ghosting?!
Haunting?
Is that a thing?
Fuckme.
Why am I so bad at all of this?
Is this why I haven’t had a relationship last this long…practically…ever?
I used to wonder if it was because no one wanted me, yet now I’m thinking maybe I’m just awful at this coupling…relationshiping…partnering?
“Your twin,” Rhonnie huffs on an eye roll.
“We’re not twins.”
“You might as fucking well be,” she rebuts while watching me lean back in my chair. “Only my ovaries have a closer relationship than the two of.”
It’s impossible to sneer and snicker in tandem.
“Call. Him.” Her maroon scrub covered figure slowly begins to back out of the room. “He can help with whatever,” one manicured nail is rolled around in my direction, “this is.” When Rhonnie reaches my office door, she adds, “You’ve got an unexpected gap in your schedule for the next twenty minutes. Make good use of it.”
“Gap? How did that happen?”
“Not entirely sure how that 6’6, dark chocolate, Applecourt, Michigan native, dribbling delight’s new patient paperwork got deleted off the server…” The sight of her freshly painted lips pursing together receives more light chuckles. “But I need to get back out there in case he has any questions or fantasies featuring an older woman who can teach him a thing or two about a thing or two.”
Another louder set of laughs precedes my front desk lead shutting the door with her on the other side.
Maybe I should call M.
See what he thinks.
Although, what he thinks or being worried about what he thinks is a huge part of the problem, so perhaps that’s counterintuitive?
A long, unhappy groan barely gets buried behind a sip of the beverage I was brought, and the lack of soothing it provides pushes me to retrieve my cell from my desk drawer to give her suggestion a shot.
It’s hard not talking about this shit.
We talk about everything.
From when he had his first “melted ice” dream to getting bullied by coaches to thoughts of worthlessness upon retiring, we legit talk about it all.
Er.
Almost all.
Thayne’s identity is one of the only things I’ve ever kept to myself.
Albeit I won’t be keeping it a secret much longer.
Especially not after all this.
A single video chat ring occurs before my brother’s face is in frame where I can see him shaking his head. “How are these the same boys I coach on the ice?”
There isn’t time to comment.
M immediately shifts the camera for me to see them clumsily bouncing around a soccer ball, the point being to keep it in the air for as long as possible.