Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
It had to be the girl. Becky. Does he still have feelings for her? That's a stupid question. It's been ten years—that's a long time to hold on to emotions, but then I guess he wasn't expecting all the memories and stuff to return. That's probably what did it.
And I'm probably overthinking it.
He finally creeps downstairs around noon, though I've heard him up there for a couple of hours at least. I’m positive he’s trying to avoid me after last night—he’s lucky I’m feeling generous and kind, since I could have a lot of fun teasing him and slamming things around. I’ve earned that after all his petty insults over the years.
Instead, I stay on the sofa with my nose buried in the second of the books Bianca recommended. They really are good. So good I can almost pay attention to what I’m reading while he shuffles around the kitchen, fixing coffee and toast in slow motion. The few glimpses I manage to sneak tell the tale of a man who profoundly regrets last night. His hair is messy, sort of flat on one side and sticking out on the other. It's totally unlike the way he usually keeps it neat and combed. He's wearing the jeans he was wearing last night, too, and they’re wrinkled and hang dangerously low on his slim hips. He's still shirtless, which is a shame because I keep wanting to sneak a look at the muscles I’ve run my hands over.
He's moving slowly, the way you move when you're afraid the whole world will shatter unless you're careful. I would offer to make him a greasy breakfast sandwich since that will help better than toast, but I don't want him taking it the wrong way. Besides, we need to go to the store, anyway. The kitchen's a little sparse, and he's been so busy with whatever he's working on that we haven't gone. And God forbid I go out by myself.
The thought sparks an idea that I can't help pursuing. Before he's halfway up the stairs with his coffee and toast, I blurt out, “Is it okay if I go to the store? I was going to make spaghetti for dinner, but we're out of a lot of things.”
“I'm not in the mood for food,” he tells me without looking my way. It seems like he’s totally focused on getting up the stairs.
“You will be later, and what am I supposed to eat?”
“Yeah, whatever. Just come straight back.” He must really be in bad shape if he agreed that fast. And how pathetic is my life that a touch of excitement runs through me knowing I can go out on my own? To the grocery store, of all places. Once he’s in his office, I hop off the sofa and rush upstairs to get changed out of my hoodie and leggings.
It's a cloudy, chilly day, but it somehow feels invigorating. As much as I love summer and sitting out at the pool, I prefer this weather. There are lots of leaves crunching under my boots, and a handful of houses I pass on my way to Main Street show off pumpkins and potted mums on the front porch. There's almost a spring in my step by the time I turn toward Main Street and head for the little grocery store. One thing this town could use is a coffee shop—call me basic, but it would be nice to pick up a pumpkin latte on the way back.
Maybe I should bring that up to Dad, since he’s behind the renovations around here. I wonder how many other little secrets he’s kept to himself… then decide it’s better that I not know.
The small store isn’t busy at this time on a weekday. Most people are probably at work. I grab a basket and thank the universe for good timing, since I don’t mind running errands, but that doesn’t mean I feel like elbowing people out of the way for a box of pasta.
I need to keep it simple, being that I’ll have to carry the bags home and don’t want to end up like Mrs. Cooper, juggling bags so full they’re ready to burst. I should stop over and say hi. To hell with Romero’s weird dislike for her. She’s a nice lady who seems lonely. I know that feeling.
How is it possible that the entire store smells like lunch meat? The odor has seeped into the paneled walls, the drop ceiling, and the chipped tile on the floor. I wonder if people used to coming in here even smell it anymore.
I’m still wondering about it when I round a corner and start down the aisle where sauces and canned goods are stocked. Maybe I’ll pick up the potato soup I was craving the last time we had a cloudy, gloomy day—I doubt Romero will be in the mood for an early dinner, so a late lunch won’t hurt me. Wow. I’m almost feeling domestic, making me snicker at myself.