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)
Then the door from the garage to the house bursts open, and in struts my brother. He stops after taking just two steps in, gives the room one hearty sniff, then gags as he eyes me. “Good Lord in Heaven, bro. What kind of funk you buildin’ up in here?”
I sigh, tap a finger on my phone to stop the music, and face my brother with a hard smirk, out of breath. “What d’you want?”
He’s lifted an arm to his nose. “Literally, my eyes are waterin’. My eyes … are fuckin’ waterin’ …”
“You’re interrupting my moves.”
“You’re interrupting all of the oxygen supply in this garage. Dude, how are you even breathing?”
“I had to put up with your musky man-funk for years every time you’d work out in here. Isn’t my fault you’ve let yourself go and forgot what a real man in a gym smells like.”
Tanner drops his arm from his face, gives me a stare, then yanks up his shirt to reveal a set of abs. “Really? This is what you call ‘letting myself go’?” He drops his shirt with a tickled laugh. “Hey, listen, I’m running a little errand. Wanna come with?”
“Why don’t you take Billy? Where is he?”
“At the Shoppe. C’mon, you know you’re bored as shit up in this place, nothing to do all summer. Bobby’s got his job, and—”
“So?” I spit back, turning defensive in an instant. “I got moves to perfect. I can’t just laze around all summer and …” I wave a hand everywhere. “… be a bum on the ranch. I’ve got work to do, too.”
“Sure you do.”
“I do!” I insist, my tone harsher.
“I don’t doubt it,” he says tiredly, yet still sounds mighty unconvinced. “Still, it’s Wednesday, it’s the dead of summer, and you’re here at home dancing with yourself in mirrors. It’s sad.”
I blow him off with an eye-roll and a mumbled, “Shut up.”
“Seriously. You’re breakin’ my heart here.”
“Tanner, I’m warnin’ you …”
“So I’ll ask again. Wanna come with me, ballerina bro?”
It never used to bother me when he’d call me that. We even had an inside bro-bro thing with it, him calling me that all the time, me laughing, us thinking it’s our little thing we do. Hell, I even liked it. It reminded me of the important precedent I set in this town, being the first boy ever to enroll in dance and have that count as my physical education credit while all the other loser boys took PE and played idiotic games of dodgeball, climbed cargo nets, and threw three-pointers with half-deflated basketballs.
But right now, suddenly the nickname does bother me.
It bothers me a hell of a lot.
“I ain’t no fuckin’ ballerina,” I spit back at him.
My brother studies me awhile, his steady eyes searching my face for something. Then he folds his arms. “Alright, tell you what. Come with me on my little errand, and I’ll let you fill my ears with whatever’s going on with you lately.”
My eyebrows pull together. “Who says anything’s going on with me?”
“Your whole face.” He turns back toward the door, then beckons me with a nod. “C’mon, Jimmy. We’ll be back before you can do a single pirouette.” His heavy footsteps carry him off. He leaves the door open—for me, presumably.
I stare down at my phone—and its totally blank screen, save for the name of the song I was just playing and the play/pause icon next to it—then let out the world’s longest sigh. “What errand?” I call out as I grab up my phone and head on after him.
We take his new white Subaru, both the windows rolled down so the air drowns out all noise and sense from me on the road. It’s nothing but a hurricane of oblivion in my ears as I lean my head back in the passenger seat and let my brother steer us into town. I don’t feel a drop of sweat on me in just a matter of seconds, the tunnel of wind that this vehicle has become drying me completely.
Despite his promise, Tanner doesn’t ask me anything, perhaps changing his mind and choosing not to pry.
That’s just as well, because I’m not in the mood for a feely talk with my brother. How can I even begin to put into words the thing that’s going on in my head?
I can’t tell my gay brother that I kissed my gay best friend.
That’s literally a Spruce-caliber recipe for scandal.
Because then he’ll have to tell Billy, who will gasp and tell his friend Mindy, who will spill it to her husband Joel, who won’t be able to keep his mouth shut the next time he’s at the church, and then by morning, the whole town will think the Strong ranch is breeding gay dudes left and right.
But if I can’t tell my own brother, then who the hell can I tell?