Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73817 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73817 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Okay. We could …” Am I supposed to read his mind here? “We could pop some popcorn. Hot chocolate. Sit out on the porch and listen to the ocean. I think I’ve got some sugar-free popsicles in the freezer.”
“Those sound gross.”
“Leftovers from a party at the Hopewells’. No one else wanted them. I like something sweet now and then.”
“Why do you keep trying to feed me?”
“Just brainstormin’ here. When I have trouble sleeping, sometimes a light snack does the trick.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I don’t know.”
The silence of the house presses against us like the walls themselves are closing in. I swear I can hear his heart beating from across the room. Or is that my own?
I shrug. “We could just … sit here and do nothing, if you prefer.”
He doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he shuffles into the room and sits on the other end of the bed, his arms still crossed. The room falls silent again.
I don’t know what to say. Or ask. Or do.
Perhaps the point is to say nothing, ask nothing, and do nothing.
This isn’t how I problem-solve. I always take action. I do things. I count inventory and seek errors. I connect with customers at the bar every night and figure out how to make them happy. I listen to friends’ problems and work out solutions they can’t see themselves. I’m a fixer.
But there’s no way to fix this.
Especially when I only know a fraction of the problem.
Sitting still is fucking agony.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
I turn to him. In the dark, we’re both just silhouettes. I could be anyone. He could be anyone. The only thing we know about each other anymore is the sound of our breaths as they drift in, then let out.
I feel strangely close to him.
Connected by this wild, interesting night we’ve shared.
“I don’t know if I can sleep out there,” he volunteers rather suddenly. “I appreciate it and all, but …”
“What do you mean?”
“I-I just …” He goes quiet.
“Is the couch uncomfortable? A friend crashed here not too long ago. Late night. Didn’t have any complaints. Got the best sleep of his life on that thing, actually.”
“No. It’s fine. It’s just … I …” I hear him draw a deep, long breath. “I’ve been on my own. For, like, so long. It … It feels … strange to be around someone again. To … be in someone’s house. I can’t quite relax. It feels like …”
He goes quiet again.
I can imagine a dozen things it feels like.
“Well …” I’m unsure where is safe to tread here. “You might have some kind of idea about me by now, but … I don’t really do things like this. Ever. Letting someone I don’t know sleep in my house. This is new to me, too.”
“I figured at a bar like that, you get propositioned all of the time,” he says.
“Of course I do. Ample opportunity to bring just about any number of guys back here if I wanted. Hell, there was a weekend I had a band of horny college boys celebrating their pal’s birthday, and they were trying to rope me into a plan that involved an orgy up in the penthouse suite at the Sunnyview. But that’s not really how I roll. Most of those propositions are made in total drunken lust, anyway, and who am I to take advantage of a moment of weakness? No.” I shake my head, finding the mere idea ludicrous. “That’s not what I want in life.”
“So … if that’s not your thing … then …” He shifts on the bed, turning to me. “What was it about me that made you give in?”
I stare ahead. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I guess I just … couldn’t imagine you on the streets. For whatever reason, you chose to come to my bar, I chose to count my inventory again, I saw something missing, and our paths crossed.”
“Sounds like fate.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I tease.
“Maybe it’s more than just your inventory. Maybe you realized something else was missing.”
I look at him. “What do you mean?”
“Can you hold me?”
I open my mouth to speak, then freeze at his question. Hold him …? I feel Seany staring at me through the dark, across the space of bed that separates us, me at one corner, him at the other.
What did he just ask me to do?
“Please?” His voice is nearly a whimper. “I just … feel like being held. It’s been a long time. A really long time.”
Is this a trick? Is this part of a bigger, more elaborate game I should have seen coming from the start?
Is he the guy with the hidden Saltgrass steak knife?
“Seany …”
The next thing I know, he scurries across the edge of the bed and throws his arms around my waist, then nuzzles his head against my side, right under my chest, almost in my armpit. My hands are lifted in alarm, startled by his sudden embrace. I’m unsure where to put them.