Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Adam grabbed a fistful of my shirt. I didn’t even budge as he brought his face closer to mine, rage in his eyes. For half a second, I seriously thought the tool was going to plant one on me. Then, in a voice deadly cold, he growled, “You’re gonna be a man right now, back down, and call a fuckin’ Uber. You are taking yourself home, bro.”
Was it the use of the word “bro” that was his mistake?
Or how close he got to my face?
Or the hand I felt gently gripping my wrist? It didn’t register that it could be my teammate Pete. Didn’t matter, either. I flipped around so fast and whacked my mystery wrist-grabber across his cheek so hard, I broke skin.
No, of course I didn’t apologize. Instead, I went for a more elegant approach: “The fuck you do that for, Pete??” I shouted.
Then Adam reached for me, and all sense of awareness was gone. I lost it. In front of everyone, I threw fists at Adam, furious, and I shoved Pete—who’d been the kindest guy to me since my injury—away with such force, a wine bottle flew off the counter. People screamed and others intervened. The rest of the team was on me in seconds, yet still I fought and hollered like a rabid dog.
Was all of this really my fury for letting Ryan go?
Did I really hate myself that much?
Somewhere in my descent to the floor, I saw myself sliding into home base all over again.
In the noise of yelling in that kitchen, I heard the roar of a stadium as I won the game for my team.
And then my face found the edge of the counter, and in grasping for something to hold onto, I took a bowl of pistachios shattering to the tile with me.
And there I was: a splatter paint work of pistachio shell art on a canvas of tile. I’m sure a bit of blood and spilled alcohol joined me, but not much else.
I was depleted of everything.
Rock bottom is a kitchen floor filled with nuts and your poor teammate Pete staring at you from the other side of the room like he doesn’t even recognize you—and he’s nursing his split-open cheek with a shaking hand.
Yeah, it wasn’t my best day.
And I don’t even like pistachios.
A very sudden, sharp pain in my knee jerks me back to the present. I fumble mid-stride on the sidewalk and catch myself before smashing face-first into the concrete.
I take a deep breath, shaking away all the memories.
But they keep swarming me like bees, buzzing in my ears. I can’t tell if it’s music from my ear buds, a roaring stadium crowd, or just noise.
Then, somewhere behind my eyelids, I see Ryan’s face. I see the look in his eyes right after I first kissed him last night.
I see the surprise. Genuine surprise.
The desire.
The urgency in his body.
And his hands.
How he looked at me like he was waiting to see what I’d do next, the same way he’d always looked to me since we were kids.
Except today, the imaginary Ryan behind my eyelids is the wise one with all the advice: “You will not drink through this one,” he coaches me, his voice strong. “I’m not picking your ass up again from beside the dumpster at Beebee’s. You’re going to get up. You’re going to jog back to my house. And you’re going to have a tall glass of water in my cute little kitchen.”
Okay, maybe I indulged a bit on that last sentence.
It does the trick of inspiring a ghost of a smile on my face. His words—even imaginary as they are—give me the strength I need.
The cramp subsides. The pain dulls to nothing. And I push myself off the pavement, blink several times, and clear my foggy head.
I’m not that angry guy at Adam’s big house with a vendetta against pistachios. I’m not the angry guy who got trashed after just a couple weeks of being in town because his dad got on his last nerve.
I’m not a broken thing.
“Get moving,” imaginary Ryan encourages me, his eyes bright and inspired, his spirit filling me with that camaraderie I always craved and needed and never failed to get from him.
I obey and move my damned legs.
18
RYAN
How am I supposed to focus at work when I spring a boner every time I think about Stefan’s cheeks enveloping my face?
And the way he moaned when I tongued him.
I was in fucking heaven.
So far this morning, I stubbed my toe on the foot of my desk (twice), filed fifteen students in the wrong folder, and accidentally hung up on a call when trying to forward them to one of the senior counselors. My head is like a shaken soda can I’m about to flip the tab on, and it’s all because of him.