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)
Ryan peers over his shoulder. “There’s no one here.”
“It’s the middle of the week. Everyone’s at school or work.”
“Except us.” He snickers nervously. “I hope no one catches us here. I’m supposed to be sick, remember?”
“And what better cure than the great outdoors? Watch out for snakes, by the way. Oh, and giant flesh-eating mosquitos, and also maybe alligators.”
“You’re a punk, Stefan.”
“I’m serious about the snakes.”
The old familiar scent of the woods fills me right up. Though we’re walking on the path, there’s still weeds and branches in the way, crunching and snapping beneath our feet. Our pace is slow, taking our time to enjoy the scenery. The path runs along the creek, which is not ideal for swimming, as it’s murky and shallow, its surface peppered with leaves and an occasional frog.
“So was it totally necessary for you to leave your shirt in the truck?” Ryan asks me randomly.
I smirk at him. “It’s hot as balls. Besides, I needed some sun. Don’t you?”
“Sure, but …” He eyes my chest once, then shrugs. “I guess it’s alright.”
I have to laugh at him. “What’s gotten you so damned uptight over the years? You used to be loose with me.”
“Loose,” he echoes with a roll of his eyes.
“Yeah. We’d fuck off every weekend. We’d lie to our parents and do shit with some of the other teammates, like hit up a movie or meet them at the mall. Remember that time we almost got caught by the security guard in that R-rated horror movie with Jessica what’s-her-name in that topless scene?”
His eyes light up. “Shit, I do remember that. We gotta hit up a movie after this.”
“Hell yeah. You realize I brought us a picnic, right?” I ask, giving the backpack I brought a pat. “I got plans.”
“Plans.” Ryan chuckles. “You were a bad influence on me back then, Stefan, and still are. Making me skip out on work.”
“Shut up. I was the best.”
“Even at school, we both used to skip seventh period—”
“It was our home period, anyway.”
“And we’d go to that arcade on the corner,” he finishes with a wistful look in his eyes, “where we’d always make sure to hit up the Ms. Pac-Man before we left. Except that one time when it was broken down.”
“Damn. That was one of the last times we went.”
I study the side of his face. I love when he gets all excited and red-cheeked.
Ryan stops in the middle of a short bridge that goes over the creek. He leans against the worn, wooden railing, which creaks against the little bit of weight he puts on it. “It was nice having home period as the last one of the day so we could skip out like we did. Except for my senior year when seventh period was calculus. That class was a bitch.”
“I wouldn’t know much about that,” I remind him.
He’s about to say something, then realizes my point. “Right. We … weren’t talking then.”
“Hey, no big deal.” I lean on the railing next to him, drop the backpack by my feet, and give him a nudge. “Here we are, making up for lost time. Doesn’t matter what happened then.”
“We’re just not teens anymore.”
“Tell that to my piece-of-shit leg,” I retort.
“Whatever. You could probably still beat me at a race. You always beat me.”
“I’m just a competitive motherfucker.”
He lets out a tiny breath that might be a chuckle, then meets my eyes. “Y’know, I don’t believe people ever really grow up. Not truly. You’re always the same person you were when you were a kid, except you’re older now. We’re all just … older children.”
“We’re big ol’ kids.” I nod. “Sounds about right.”
“You just have new tools in your toolbox.” Ryan taps his head for emphasis. “And when you get angry, you don’t throw tantrums like you did when you were an immature little child. You don’t throw a toy at someone’s head.”
“Or a catcher’s mitt,” I put in.
A look of fondness twisted up with anxiety enters his eyes. He smiles despite the memory I clearly just triggered for him. “That was … a shitty day.”
“Best day,” I correct him. “When your dad forced your sorry ass to come over and apologize to me.”
“You started it, punk. Throwing that mitt at my head.”
“We both started it. We also started … this.” I gesture between us. “Best day, if you ask me.”
His lips curl up subtly at the sound of that. “Best day.”
I smile back.
“Of course,” he adds, his eyes detaching, “sometimes when we get angry … we forget about all the new brain-tools we have. We aren’t mature anymore. Even at twenty-something, we’ll turn into a kid again, and we do throw that toy at someone’s head. Except … it isn’t a toy anymore,” he murmurs, staring listlessly at the creek. “It’s a toaster. Or a bat. Or whatever your hands can grab off the mantle of the fireplace, and you’re throwing it at your husband’s head and screaming.”