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)
“Is that where you’re from?”
Nope. “Yep.”
“I’m from a little town called Spruce. You’ve probably never heard of it. So what did everyone in San Antonio say this place is like?”
I eye the blanket he’s lying on. It’s a Pac-Man blanket.
Also, all of that about San Antonio was bullshit. Didn’t even know this place existed until I found it. “Paradise.”
“Hey, that’s what I just said it’s like!” He lets out a laugh, then draws quiet, studying me. “So what’s wrong?”
“I’m here at last, sitting in the middle of it all, and I feel …” I hug my knees tighter. “… so far from paradise.”
“Oh. Maybe you just need to give it time. You lonely? Who’d you come here with? I’m Toby, by the way.”
I already forgot his name. “I’m here with no one.”
“Hmm. You wanna hang with me and my boyfriend?” He takes off his shades and sets them on top of a balled-up t-shirt. “He’ll be back soon. Maybe I can show you around. Like I said, we’re kinda new here ourselves, and—”
I peer at him. “Really? You’d let me hang with you?”
“Of course! We could even grab a bite to eat after this, maybe somewhere on the boardwalk. You don’t have to be alone, y’know. I’ll show you just what paradise is like.”
I’m not one to cling to fleeting hope, but this sounds promising—more promising than chasing some dream with the owner of the popular beachside bar. Maybe I can make something last for a few days with this guy. “Thanks.”
“No sweat.” He smiles at me. “What’s your name?”
I glance down at his blanket. The names of the little Pac-Man ghosts are traced along the edge in an arcade font. Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and—“Clyde,” I tell him, reading the name of the little orange one.
Rule number one of getting by when you’re on the run: don’t ever use your real name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Clyde! Hey, you wanna go for a little dip with me? I think I might enjoy the water one last time before the sun’s gone. I see you’re not in a bathing suit, but maybe you can kick off your shoes and—?”
“Nah, it’s alright. You go on ahead. I just want to sit here and chill for a bit.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Alright. My boyfriend will be back any second. If you change your mind, you know where to find me!” He lets out a cute, silly laugh, then hops off of the blanket and heads toward the crashing waves.
I glance at the things he left behind. The blanket. An empty orange cooler with an opened can of Mountain Dew next to it. His shades. A crumpled-up t-shirt.
And peeking out from under that t-shirt: a wallet.
I bite my lip. I won’t steal again. I won’t steal again. I won’t—Fuck.
The next second, I’ve got his wallet in hand, and thirty bucks goes missing. I leave the credit card and everything else, because I’m not a total idiot. He may not even realize he’s missing the cash until he gets home or goes out to eat; he’ll just think I got bored and took off. What do I owe him anyway? I pocket the cash and hurry to my feet, trying my best to be quick but also discreet. No one’s eyes are on me as I head off, making my way up the beach to the road.
Maybe this is why I have no friends.
I always prioritize instant rewards over long games.
But how am I expected to be any different? Nothing good lasts. Every single promise ever made to me has been broken my whole damned life. I’m fairly certain this place is paradise only for everyone else. Less privileged guys like me don’t deserve a slice of it. We’re left to fend for ourselves among the scraps left behind by all of the more fortunate and lucky in life. Guys like me have to take what we can get, then scram. Even if it means being lonely.
I sit on the curb, hidden slightly by a thicket of trees at my back. The briny air blows across my face as cars drift by, their occupants oblivious to life’s problems and happy as can be. I gnaw on my lip as I fiddle with the cash in my pocket, wondering what I should do with it. Tourist spots aren’t exactly the most efficient way to stretch your money, with everything so exorbitantly marked up and expensive. I have to hit up a cheapo gas station with fixed prices, or else find a spot on the northwest end of the island where the locals hang. Venturing into locals’ territory has its risks.
Every moment of my life lately is riddled with risks.
Maybe I should’ve trusted that nice young guy to take me out for a meal. But it always goes down the same: some well-meaning person tries to help me, learns I’m homeless, boyfriend gets suspicious, then I’m back on the streets. No matter how nice people are, they never follow through.