Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Rob: You’ll only get papercut injuries if you roll in it naked. Which is just weird. Please don’t roll in your cash naked. I don’t want to think about that. That crosses the boundaries of friendship. If you do, please burn it after.
Wade: Isn’t it illegal to deface money?
Rob: If you burn it, wouldn’t that get rid of the evidence?
Wade: I need something to do. It’s been a month. The boredom is going to slay me.
Rob: Like I said, get to work. Let me know what you need. Text me. My email goes through the company server. It’s not secure.
Wade: Are you are going to delete these after, or will your phone spontaneously self-destruct?
Rob: I wish. Make the next one you said you’ll buy for me, a little more spy-like.
Wade: You wouldn’t know what to do with all that technology.
Rob: Ouch. Right in the heart.
Wade: I think people say, “in the feels” now.
Rob: That sounds perverted. I have to get back to work, though. There’s this kid hell-bent on framing these walls at an angle. The whole building would have a slant if he had his way.
Wade: Is he drunk?
Rob: I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. You know all about working in this industry. Not drunk, but hungover. I think that’s just as bad. Anyway, one of us has to earn an honest living, so I better get off the phone.
Wade: Beers on Tuesday?
Rob: You’re coming down here?
Wade: I still live in this city.
Rob. Right. I should ask if you’re coming back to civilization.
Wade: Hilarious. On Tuesday, I am. My mom needs living proof that I’m still alive, and it isn’t a robot sending texts.
Rob: Send me the details. I’ll delete all the texts after. And tell me what disguise you’ll be in. I don’t want to show up guessing.
Wade: That would be something I’d like to see.
Rob: If you alter ego me and use it as a lifelong private joke, I’m going to find out where you live and egg your house eighth grade Halloween night style.
Wade: I wish you would. At least cleaning it up would give me purpose.
Rob: You have purpose. In the form of billions of dollars. Just figure out how to use it.
I send the thumbs up emoji because I have no idea how to answer that. I’m not just supposed to be hiding out here. I’m supposed to be figuring out how to live my life now. But one thing is certain; it’s not going to look like this.
While I have my phone out, I fire off a text to my mom.
Wade: Still alive. Don’t worry. Don’t phone the cops. I know it’s been a couple of days, so I’m checking in.
Not even half a second later, my phone beeps.
Mom: Very funny. I’ve been worried! Did you bring enough pairs of underwear? Or should I buy you some for the next time you visit?
Wade: (skull and crossbones emoji, brain exploding emoji) Thanks, but I have enough. I do know how to operate the washer and dryer.
Mom: Just checking. Are you eating okay?
Wade: I’m surviving. Coming back Tuesday. I’ll text you the details that morning.
Tomorrow is Monday. I know I can confirm with Rob, but I don’t dare send my mom the details until a few hours before I get to my parent’s house. I’ll have to figure out some way to slip in without being noticed. Probably under the cover of darkness after I’m done having beers with Rob. Cab it and run into the house through the back alley. That might work.
After I disappeared, the journalists gave my parent’s house a break, so as long as there aren’t any more camping out still, I should be good to go. Just in case, I’ll be sure to bring along a disguise and change in the back seat of the cab.
Jesus. I can’t believe this is what my life has boiled down to—covert cab rides and fake mustaches.
The sound of humming drifts through the kitchen window I cracked open earlier in the morning. It’s scorching out there, and hearing the pleasant little trill reminds me that I left it open, and all the hot air from the summer day is getting into the house. The air conditioner barely keeps up. Maybe I should look at it. I’m no plumber or repairman, but I am a lot like my dad. Even before I studied carpentry and worked in the trades as a finishing carpenter, I could do a little bit of everything here and there. My mom calls me and my dad her Mister Fix-Its.
I set my phone down on the couch where I had been sitting and stalk through to the kitchen. I lower the window quickly, but I can’t resist a peek through the mostly closed blinds.
My neighbor, Lu-Anne, is out in her backyard. I can barely make her out from the angle I’m at, but since her back deck is huge and high, she’s visible above the fence from the shoulders up. They’re a pretty fine set of shoulders too. She has a dark head of mahogany hair shot through with red highlights, which dance in the sunlight.