Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
I really like him, too. And I really like whatever this is that we’re doing together.
Chapter 10
Archer
Steering the basket around the slow Sunday shoppers crowding the aisles of Harry’s Hardware, I unhappily grunt, “You’re very pushy about this fucking topic.”
“And you’re very circumventy.”
“You may be the word expert, but I’m pretty sure there’s not supposed to be a y on that.”
“I am the word expert because I conduct words for myself and others,” the playfulness in her tone successfully sparks a smirk, “therefore I declare that it’s an adjective now.”
Faking a gasp occurs at the same time I stop our cart in the area for paint. “What would Webster say?”
“It’s actually Merriam-Webster – which, fun fact, is the oldest dictionary publisher in this country – and none of those people would say anything because they’re dead and they’ve been dead and if the dead start talking, we have a Warm Bodies situation on our hands that I’m ill prepared for.”
“I’m not.” The casualness of my counter receives an eyebrow lift. “I’ve read my fair share of survival material over the years – mainly while I was serving. I wouldn’t say I’m a bushcraft expert, but I think based on the skills I’ve adapted and perfected, we could make it through at least the first few waves of a zombie apocalypse.”
Jaye tucks the sleeves of her warm caramel colored sweater into the palms of her hands and girlishly giggles. “Is it weird I find that oddly comforting?”
Leaning into the beautiful sound is accompanied by me resting my arms on the edge of the basket. “Nah.”
What? It’s not any fucking weirder than me finding comfort in that sound. Or the way she always put out a coffee mug for me in the morning no matter how busy she gets. Or the fact that we’re out shopping for things to make the house feel like our home rather than her dead fiancé’s. Okay, yeah. That last one is still pretty fucking strange.
“We’re making you a DMV appointment and a doctor’s appointment. Both are happening. I already put them on the calendar for this week – the one in my phone and the one in the kitchen – so you can keep being evadey and dodgey and flighty-”
“You’re just adding ys for the fuck of it.”
“-all you want, but we are doing those things whether you grump and grumble like the Pigeon or not.”
“The Pigeon?”
“From the Pigeon Series by Mo Willems.” Her face slightly cringes in its typical fashion. “It’s a kid’s book series-”
“I figured that.”
“And the Pigeon is the main character. He goes through emotional pout spells sometimes especially when he’s being told he has to do something he doesn’t wanna do. Hence you being the Pigeon.”
“I’m not a pigeon.”
“You are for the sake of this conversation.”
The glower on my face expands.
“Now, can you stop being the Pigeon long enough for us to pick out paint for your bathroom.”
My displeasure swiftly deepens. “It’s not my bathroom, Jaye.”
She sassily folds her arms across her chest. “Do you shower in it?”
“Yes, but-”
“Do you brush your teeth in it?”
“Yeah, but-”
“Do you keep your soap, deodorant, razor, and other toiletries in it?”
“I don’t like the word toiletries.”
“But don’t you love having them?”
Fuck me, I really do.
As if she could hear the retort I didn’t speak, she gleefully grins. “Exactly. And that place you keep them is your bathroom.”
“It’s the guest bathroom.”
“No, housemate, it’s your bathroom and you should get to have it catered to a style you enjoy rather than staring at framed photos of Chicago, Seattle, Boston, and Manhattan skylines. Those were Chris’s choices in décor. His favorite cities. His favorite places. But like you keep reminding me, he’s not here anymore.”
For fucks sake, why can’t I be gentler about saying that shit to her?
“It’s okay…that…things…change.”
The words lack the strength they should prompting me to reach over and gently cup her arm. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to change shit until you are ready to change. Everyone moves the fuck on at their own speed. Don’t let me push to do shit you’re not wanting.”
“That’s the thing…,” excitement unexpectedly blooms in her gaze, “I do want these things. And I do want a house that feels like a home versus a museum I sleep in. I’m tired of living exactly like other people dictate. Doing things just because that’s how they’ve always been done. I want these changes as much as I need them.”
Thoughtlessly my thumb strokes the area under its grasp.
Jaye softly whimpers at the contact, and I have to force myself to remove my touch.
You think I don’t want to hear her making those sounds? What are you, fucking crazy? Of course, I want to hear that shit. And her moaning. And crying out my goddamn name. But that, my friend, isn’t happening. Or going to happen. We’re…as much as it pains me to say…friends. And fucking…roommates. And neither of those have the word naked before them. I keep trying to tell that to my dick, but he still seems to think if he keeps popping up enough that may change. Unfortunately, it won’t.