Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I muse. “And I already did my makeup for dinner.”
“Why did you do your makeup for dinner? I thought you were just eating at home with your dad and Wendy.”
“We were at home, and Dad wanted to take photos. I figured I’d put one on Instagram later,” I admit, knowing how shallow that sounds. I’ve grown a thick skin over the years, but if putting on some makeup makes me feel a little better, then I’ll do it.
“I’ll text him and let him know you’re coming.”
“Thanks. Give Ally a hug and a kiss for me,” I say, missing my goddaughter. She just turned three last month and is the cutest thing ever. Farisha, as well as her husband, teach at Berkeley. We’re in the same state but are hours away, so we don’t see each other often since it’s not like I can hop in the car and make the half-day drive up north easily.
“I will. Have fun, but not too much fun.”
“Buzzkill. Night, Rish,” I say and then hang up. Stretching my arms over my head, I quickly reread the scene I just wrote, double-check that my document saved, and then go upstairs to change out of my comfy clothes.
I packed rather quickly, and in my haste over-packed, which I usually do regardless. I didn’t have time to plan anything out, to stop and think about what I’d need to wear on certain days. I don’t like living out of a suitcase and already hung up my clothes in the closet. I pull the hair tie out of my hair as I look through my options, deciding on a black dress. It’s simple enough to wear on a casual night out like this, but still adding a hint of date-night sexy too.
My hair air-dried after showering and needs just a bit of straightening at the top to help tame some of the fly-aways. If my hair wasn’t so thick, it would probably curl a lot better than it does, and instead hands in loose waves that make it look like I put effort into my appearance than I actually did.
I grab a pair of dark red stilettos and then change my mind at the last minute, feeling like I’ll look like I’m trying too hard if I go all out with the little black dress and a pair of killer heels. I trade the heels for sensible wedge sandals.
Without giving myself time to second-guess my appearance, I head out, taking the keys to Dad’s Jeep. The air has cooled off after the storm, so I double back into the house to get a sweater, and then have to go around checking the locks before I can go out and come home an hour or so later without freaking out.
“This house has so many windows,” I grumble, turning on the upstairs hallway light to make it look like someone is home. Silver Ridge is a small town, but it takes a decent amount of time to get into the downtown area from the lake house since I have to drive all the way around the lake. It’s nearing ten-thirty when I pull into the bar’s parking lot. The place is packed, though Silver Ridge’s definition of “packed” is different than what I’m used to from living in LA.
I haven’t been here in years, and it looks—and smells—the same. It’s supposedly part of the charm and the reason the owners have hardly done updates over the years. People like knowing what they’re coming to, and while it’s mostly an excuse to never update lighting or decor, this place is nostalgic for many people, from the locals to the people who come to Silver Ridge on vacation to use our lake and our hiking trails.
There was a time when I wouldn’t be caught dead walking into a bar alone. Just thinking about it would cause my chest to tighten and my stomach to clench up. I’ve gained a lot of confidence over the years, though it didn’t come easily, and I still find myself slipping back from time to time.
I’m actually smiling when I step through the double doors, emerging into the dimly light bar. Sahil is behind the counter, filling beers and talking with his customers. He looks up after he passes out the glasses and waves. I wave back, and he shoos someone away from the bar, giving me their stool.
“Damn, Fisher,” Sahil says, coming around the bar to give me a hug. “You look good.”
“I’d say the same about you, but that would be a lie,” I shoot back, and we laugh. Sahil is five years younger than me and was quite the pain in the ass when Farisha and I were younger, mostly because she got tasked with looking after him when her mom got caught at work, filling out paperwork or coming up with new health protocols for the school.