Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“So,” Gerald says, leaning in, “You’re really done with the Air Force, bud?”
“That’s the rumor,” I say, taking a long swallow of lemonade. “I’m not going to miss the paperwork.”
“You thinking of settling down?”
The question is so loaded I nearly choke. “Not sure the world’s ready for that, Gerry.”
My friend laughs, then winks. “You never know, Jack. Good women can reform even the most degenerate men.”
I resist the urge to ask if he’s seen the world lately, because it sure as hell hasn’t reformed me.
But Nancy and Eliza reappear then, and for the next half hour, it’s lunch—sandwiches, potato salad and macaroni salad, the whole Midwest feast. Conversation is mostly small talk, but every now and then, Eliza fires off a comment that cuts through the boredom. Like when Gerald mentions his new mower:
“It’s got a self-propelled drive, but I still have to steer,” he grumbles.
Eliza deadpans, “If you can’t handle a lawnmower, Daddy, you probably shouldn’t have had kids.”
It gets a laugh, and for a second, she meets my eyes. There’s that smirk again, cute behind her innocent facade.
After lunch, Gerald insists on showing me “his real pride and joy”—the backyard vegetable beds, which he claims are better than anything at the farmers’ market. He brings Eliza along, bragging about her “green thumb” and how she designed the whole layout herself. I nod and admire the symmetry, but mostly I admire her. When the young blonde bends to tie up a tomato stalk, her shorts ride up just enough to make me question every good intention I’ve ever had.
We walk the perimeter, Gerald gesturing like a proud general inspecting his troops. Eliza trails a step behind, arms folded, lips pressed into a smile that’s half amusement, half boredom. At the far end of the yard, she slips off her sandals and steps barefoot into a patch of grass. She stretches, arms overhead, tank top riding up to reveal a soft, tanned stomach.
Gerald is talking, something about pest control, but I can’t hear a word of it. All I see is Eliza, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, a goddess in cutoff denim with big breasts that bounce, and a round rear end. She glances back at me, eyes gleaming, and I look away before I embarrass myself.
But I can feel the heat between us. It’s stupid and dangerous and entirely predictable.
Eventually, Gerald runs out of things to point at, and we head back to the patio. Nancy joins us, and Eliza disappears inside to “get started on dessert,” which is a pie she baked herself. Gerald offers me a beer, and I take it, even though I shouldn’t. He leans back, the king of his suburban kingdom.
“So, Jack. Any big plans now that you’re settled?”
I shrug. “Take it easy for a while. Maybe travel. See what happens.”
He nods. “You earned it. But if you ever get bored, we always have room for another hand around here.” He jerks his chin toward the house. “Eliza’s got big ideas for the garden, but she needs someone who can keep up.”
I smirk.
“I’m not sure I know anything about vegetation, but sure, I’m happy to give it a try.”
There, that sounds like a normal reply, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the illusion that this could be my life—simple, domestic, anchored to a plot of land and the people on it. Then Eliza returns, her hair down now, carrying a pie so beautiful it almost makes me cry, with its whipped cream turrets and gleaming red fruit. She sets it on the table and smiles sweetly.
“Cherry pie, Mr. Landry? I know you’ve got a taste for cherries.”
Holy fuck, is she implying something with those words? Is she saying that I like to pop young girls’ cherries, claiming their virginity once and for all? There’s no way that Eliza could be a virgin, right? So I merely grunt in reply as the conversation continues … but there’s the promise of something reckless just out of reach.
Unfortunately, Gerald’s still blabbering on even after dessert. When did my bud become such a fucking chatterbox? But he drones on for the next half hour, his mouth moving at a rapid pace. It’s a running commentary on city council races, his fantasy football prospects, and a long, meandering story about a neighbor’s dog that ate a sock and had to have it surgically removed. All the while, Eliza smiles at me, something naughty in those big blue eyes.
It’s subtle at first. A glance that lingers a half-second too long. The tiniest smirk when I fumble my napkin. But then it escalates: she props her elbow on the table and rests her cheek in her hand, pushing her chest forward. When she leans in to grab a tomato, the neckline of her tank top sags, and I catch a sliver of a bikini top. Holy fuck, it’s all string with no fabric and I clamp down on my body’s reaction. I’m too old for this. I’m not nearly old enough to want it less.