Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Good. I have plenty more where that came from.”
“Keep ’em coming, Sass,” he calls from a short distance.
Well, guess I don’t have to finish what I started when I have an expert in-house to do the job for me. I finish washing up and then get out of the tub. After blowing out the three wicks of the giant candle, I pull on a pair of his boxer briefs and another one of his tees. I hold the green cotton up, and the blue lettering reads Fuck it. Let’s go to Nantucket. I laugh. My guy is so goofy.
Carrying the ceramic candle back into the living room like Baby carrying a watermelon, I enter the living room and set it in front of him on the coffee table, and say, “I carried a candle.”
His eyes dart to the candle. “Huh?”
I lean against the arm of the couch, and reply, “You know, from Dirty Dancing? She carried a watermelon for Johnny.”
“I’ve never seen it.” His eyes go to the candle again. “There’s a candle in the bathroom. Why’d you burn this one?”
I glance back at the centerpiece, the only thing on the coffee table. “Because you never have, and it’s too pretty not to see it lit up.”
He stands and goes around the other side of the couch from me and into the kitchen. “I never did because it’s not meant to burn. It’s art.” I turn to watch him open the fridge door, blocking him from my view.
“The bowl is pretty, but it’s still a candle, Warner.”
The door is shut, and if it didn’t have soft closure, it would have slammed. With a bottle of beer in his hand, he twists the top. “It’s literally a piece of art, Delaney. I won it at an auction a few years ago before the artist passed away. Now its value has tripled, but you just lit that profit on fire.”
Sure the candle was an accident, but I get a sinking feeling that something bigger is going on here. “I’m sorry. I—”
“That’s the first time you’ve apologized for anything you’ve done.” He tips the bottle back and chugs half of it before lowering it back down and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. What in the world is going on with him?
“That’s not true. I’ve apologized when I have needed to.”
“Are you calling me the liar?”
“The liar? Like if you’re not it, I am? Am I catching the gist of what you’re saying?” He moves back to the couch when the announcer says Griffin Greene is stepping up to the plate. Standing with his eyes glued to the TV, he appears mesmerized as if we weren’t in the middle of something here. “Warner?”
I’m ignored.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. I look at the TV, watching the baseball player step up to the plate. Grabbing the remote, I click it just as the sound of the bat cracking is heard.
He shoots me a glare. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I toss the remote on the couch between us. “You start a fight with me and then ignore me like I don’t matter in this equation.”
“There is no equation. There’s me, my apartment, and the baseball game on TV. Then there’s you burning shit down per usual and then acting like it doesn’t matter to me.”
“I said I’m sorry for lighting the candle.” I try to keep myself from reacting to his anger. He has a right to be mad. He doesn’t have a right to ignore me. “I’ll pay for it. Then you’ll have your money back.”
He laughs, like infuriatingly loud, and then drinks more beer. “I have a strong feeling that you don’t have a hundred K lying around.”
I look at it again, making sure we’re talking about the same one. “For that?” I ask, pointing at it.
“Forget it.” He clicks on the TV again. I see his eyes home in on the tiny Eiffel Tower. I’m regretting leaving it there now. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to be upset over a candle, though I should have. “Great. He’s already hit, and I missed a homer.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve knocked it out of the park of assholery in your very own living room.” I walk back to the bedroom without hearing another word from him. I go into the bathroom and grab the glass I left next to the tub and swallow the remainder.
When I walk into the bedroom again, he’s standing in the other doorway. The black eye is already changing from purple and blue to green and yellow, healing more each day. His cast is still pristine like it was just put on today. Last night I was kissing his shoulder, where there is more bruising, but the scratches are almost healed. There’s so much broken—from his arm to his skin—but I’m starting to wonder how he’s doing on the inside. “How was your day?” I ask, whispering between us.