Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
She laughs. “Well, now that I think about it, I’m not so sure. I mean, Gonzo maybe, but Kermit?”
“Maybe if I work hard,” you say.
“Maybe,” she agrees, kissing you.
You make out, right there, on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s a beautiful moment. Nothing can ruin it—not even when a guy dressed like Darth Vader angrily tells you to get a room.
“We have one of those,” you say. “How about we go make use of it?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
You make love to her, on and off, all night long. Now that those words are out, now that they exist between you, you can’t seem to stop saying them.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Your first night in California is one of the best of your life. You’re hopeful for the future.
The next day, all your credit cards get shut off.
The day after that, your bank account is frozen.
It’s a quick descent, from hopeful to despondent. You’re not surprised your father cut you off, but it hurts. What you have is maybe a hundred dollars in your wallet and a notice to vacate the hotel in 72-hours. What you don’t have is a job. You’re going to have to do something drastic.
So you leave the next morning before dawn, to try to figure something out, and you don’t make it back until later that night, well after sunset. You sleep for a few hours before you’re back at it again.
You finish earlier this time, though, around three o’clock in the afternoon. The girl is sitting on the bed in the hotel, writing in her notebook. She greets you with a smile.
“What are you writing?” you ask, sitting down next to her, not expecting her to answer. You ask all the time, and she always tells you ‘a story’.
This time, though, she says, “Our story.”
“Our story,” you say. “That’s what it is?”
“Sort of,” she says. “It’s my version of us.”
“Can I read some of it?”
Her pen stalls. She hesitates. Carefully, she flips back to the beginning and hands it to you. “Just the first few pages.”
You read, utterly fascinated, but you don’t get far at all before you have a grievance to air. “See, now that’s bullshit. This line right here. You said there was nothing special about you.”
She snatches the notebook back. “About her, not me.”
“But she’s you. And I can assure you, the first time I saw you, I wasn’t thinking…” You grab the notebook, and she refuses to surrender it, but you pull it close enough to read. “You’re a commoner because not all girls can be royalty. That’s bullshit. You’re the queen, baby.”
She yanks the notebook away, closing it and tossing it out of your reach. “I said it’s my version. It’s fictionalized.”
“You should write my version.”
“Which would be, what? Thirty pages of duck jokes followed by a whole bunch of smut?”
“Duck jokes,” you say. “Or dick jokes?”
“Knowing you? Both.”
“Funny, but no. It would be a story of struggle that leads to triumph.” You stand up. “Come on, put your shoes on. Let’s go for a walk. I’ll show you.”
“You’ll show me.”
Despite her incredulous tone, she listens, and the two of you walk around, strolling a few blocks. The neighborhood isn’t the best, but it isn’t too dangerous. Maybe a bit rundown, but it’s quiet.
When you reach an old two-story white and blue building, you lead her around to the back of it, to a small outdoor staircase. You pull a ring of keys from your pocket. She looks at you with confusion.
Still, she follows you up those stairs, patiently waiting as you unlock a creaky door at the top. She steps inside, looking around the empty place.
It’s an apartment. It’s small. There’s no other way to put that. The kitchen and living room merge together into one, beside a single bedroom just big enough to hold a bed. The bathroom is like a box, everything cramped together. The floor is made of old unfinished wood, scuffed and stained. The white paint on the walls is peeling, leaving patches of a peach color in places. There’s only one window in the entire apartment, in the bedroom, blocked by an old air conditioner.
“I know it’s not much,” you say. “It’s shitty, really. I know. But I’m eighteen, I’ve got no job and no credit, so it’s the best I can manage right now.”
“It’s ours?” She looks at you. “You rented this?”
You hesitate, like your mouth doesn’t want to admit that, before you nod. You’re swallowing your pride. “It’s ours.”
“But can we even afford a place?” she asks. “How will we pay for it?”
“I got us some money,” you tell her. “It won’t last forever, but it should be enough to get us settled.”
“Where’d you get money?”
You hesitate yet again. “I, uh… I sold my car.”
You sold the blue Porsche. You tried to think of another way, but it was the only thing of value you had, that you owned. So you sold it, for less than it’s worth, but if you’re careful, it’s enough to cover living expenses for a few months.