Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Aside from the move, tonight feels dull—just like last Friday. I don’t know what it means, exactly. Am I hitting the wall? Am I getting old? My libido is still strong. I’m very attracted to men. I’m just … bored. Uninspired. Apathetic about men, really.
Most of them, anyway.
“You are not lame,” Rebecca says. “You’re dealing with a lot of crap right now. It makes sense that you want to press the brakes a little bit.”
I lean forward, my chest pressing against the table, and look her in the eye. “But I’m not a brake presser. I’m a gas smasher.”
She laughs. “I know. I’m not saying you’re weak, so calm down. Even legends have to sit one out every now and then so they can refuel.”
Okay, true. I grin, reclining against my seat once again, satisfied by her explanation.
“I know how you feel about emotions, so I won’t harp on it,” she says, her tone wrapped in sweetness. “But how are you? Really? It’s okay if your day made you feel-y.”
I stare at her.
“You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Why do you think so little of me?”
“Sara,” she says, laughing. “Come on. You moved out of your apartment with a week’s notice, and your new rental won’t be ready for a few days. It’s understandable if you feel out of whack.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to get me to say I’m having big emotions and need consoling?”
She grins. “Yes.”
“Too bad. I’m not.”
Rebecca and Ashley understand me more than anyone else on the planet. Ashley and I have been friends since we were kids, and when Rebecca moved here a few years ago, she fit right in. But despite our close friendship, I don’t think they really understand me.
No, I know they don’t.
It’s not their fault, though. It’s not really mine, either.
That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate their concern, thinking I secretly operate on the same playing field emotionally as they do. I’m not sure if they think I’m just a badass that views sharing too vulnerable or if they suspect I truly harbor feelings that I won’t share with them.
Neither is the case.
I don’t have them.
Thank God.
She clears her throat. “And you also quit your job unexpectedly.”
“Because Joshua was a condescending asshole.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I could’ve still worked with him if he would’ve just been like, ‘Hey, we’re done here. I fell in love with this chick, and I’m gonna marry her.’ Hell, I would’ve bought them a wedding present. A nice one, too, because I truly don’t care. But the whole, ‘What did you expect? You’re not marriage material, and you know it’ bullshit was too much. Fuck that guy.”
Jenny slides up to the table, placing a basket of chips and a dish of salsa between us. “Ooh, who are we fucking?”
“Currently, no one.” I frown. “That sounds so unlike me.”
Jenny laughs. “Yes. Yes, it does.”
I sigh. “Can I get a chicken fajita, no beans, please, with a coconut-lime margarita? Maybe put an extra shot of tequila in there?”
“Same, but with beans and without the extra shot,” Rebecca says.
“Sure. I’ll be back with your drinks,” Jenny says, waving at a new set of customers sitting down at a table across the room from us.
Rebecca dunks the corner of a chip into the salsa. “For the record, I agree with you on the Joshua thing. You both knew it was just a fling. I don’t know why he had to flip the script like that.”
“Because he could. And, honestly, I’m not super surprised. He can be a total dick—which is precisely why he was relegated to being a side piece.”
“He can’t be a side piece if you don’t have a main piece.”
I consider that. “All right. Good point. But if I were to have a main piece, he would never be a contender for the honor.”
“Are you insinuating that someone would?”
“Absolutely not.”
She smirks, chewing her chip while watching me with amusement.
I roll my eyes. “What about you? Who would be in contention for the honor of settling down with Rebecca?”
The smirk melts off her face. “I don’t know.”
“See? Don’t act like I’m a maniac because I’m not into long-term relationships.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t into one. I just said I don’t know who that person would be. I’m just … picky. I’ve had my share of traumatic personal relationships.”
I grab a chip and scoop up a healthy amount of salsa. A part of me wants to poke her about that, push her to share like she does me. But Rebecca closes, builds a wall, and hides when she’s prodded for information. It’s like it physically makes her ill. Very different from me. I have no interest in making her uncomfortable. She’ll talk when she’s ready.
“And I would like to avoid them,” I say, watching salsa drip into the dish from the edge of the chip. “But, for once, I have bigger issues on my plate than men.”