Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 116177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Billy across the room seems distracted by something, then peers our way suddenly, his eyes searching. He finds Nadine, then gives a meek little wave at her.
Nadine returns the wave, though her face looks a bit pained. “Mmm. Life is so funny sometimes, the way things work out.” She crosses her arms, then turns her eyes onto me with importance. “You and Jimmy need to fix this thing between you. Him without you? You without him? It just ain’t right, boy.”
I’m stunned a bit by her sudden shift in topic. “Ma’am?”
“You heard the words I just said.” She nods at me assertively. “Jimmy can do only so much with an apology. You also need to do your own part in fixin’ things with him.”
I clear my throat, then avert my eyes. “Mrs. Strong, I—”
“I won’t hear it.” She arches her eyebrows. “I adore havin’ you in my son’s life, Bobby. You give him so much happiness. Don’t go takin’ it all away, now.”
I close my eyes. “Mrs. Strong, there’s a lot more goin’ on that you don’t—”
“It’s Nadine.” She gives my cheek a pinch, startling me, then smiles. “Friends and family call me Nadine, sweetheart. You know that. Now eat a cherry tart and put a smile on that cute face a’ yours, hon.” Then, with a wink and a smack of something into my palm, the woman saunters her way around me and mingles among some other Spruce locals, like this is her own party.
I peer down at my hands.
One of Billy’s famous cherry tarts from his T&S Shoppe sits on my palm, decorative, flaky, and sweet.
I take a bite from it.
Heaven.
Nadine made a few good points, but she’s missing some key information. I can tell just from the way she spoke to me now. If she knew all that transpired between me and Jimmy, I think she would’ve picked a few other words to say.
I finish the tart by the time I make it back to the house, alone. The tart doesn’t sit well in my stomach. I proceed to wander through its halls and exhibits, as my eyes scan the crowds of people around me. Several I recognize, but I don’t bring any attention to myself, preferring to keep in my own head.
I don’t see Jimmy anywhere.
Not that I’m looking for him. Or worried about him.
Or that the boy is actually the only thing I’ve been thinking about since we left the house.
Ugh, of course he’s all I’m thinking about.
That is, until I turn a corner in the art gallery hall and, after spending a second to admire an awe-striking painting of a lake by a damned third grader (seriously, the talent among our youth here in Spruce is staggering), I find myself face-to-face with Anthony Myers himself, who stands before me awkwardly with a glass of champagne in his hand.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the day I was fired.
My eyes flash, startled and scared and angry the second I see his round, stupid face.
Anthony makes a thousand and one thoughts in the space of a second before blurting out, “B-Bobby. Hi there. I … I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought—I, um—well, anyway, I wanted to say to you that—”
“I don’t care what you’ve got to say to me,” I cut him off coldly, “or to anyone for that matter.”
“Bobby. W-Wait. Really, I was just gonna say I—”
“Save it.” I make my way right around him, heading off to view the rest of the exhibit, despite the scramble of emotions that are now all stirred up in my chest just by seeing him.
The last thing I care about is what Anthony wants to say.
He’s already said and done enough for a lifetime.
I find a bathroom, shove my way through the door, then shut it behind me with a sigh. My feet shuffle across the tile as I put myself in front of the mirror, then commence in a staring contest.
Solitude and peace envelop me.
The world is far away for now, where it belongs.
Is it really so awful an idea, to just forgive Jimmy, move on, and be his boyfriend again? Even if he hurts me again?
Would it be so bad to let him back in, so I can feel his arms around me again every night when I put myself to sleep?
I lift an arm tentatively to the mirror, then pop it in place, imitating that thing Jimmy always does. It’s followed by another little maneuver he taught me, then by a few of the dance steps of our two-man routine we’ve been working on.
The moves make me smile.
Then I stop.
My arms drop to my sides.
My smile falters.
It’s over, I remind myself.
In another twenty minutes, I’m sitting at a table off to the side with my parents. A few friends of my ma’s from church are with us, too, but they mostly keep conversation with her, leaving me to stew by myself with my thoughts. I’m in the chair right against the edge of the covered pavilion area by an ornate thatch wall with wallflowers intertwined through it, so I feel pretty much invisible to everyone, which is exactly how I want to be right now.