Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
We get a booth in the corner and Jasper naturally takes the seat against the wall. I was going to take that side so I could look around. I almost ask if he’ll switch with me, but I get the oddest sense he’s most comfortable there.
He doesn’t really look comfortable. He looks alert, his gaze sweeping the room as if on the lookout for trouble.
What kind of trouble could he possibly be anticipating in a small Wisconsin town he doesn’t even live in?
I think maybe he’s just always anticipating trouble.
Force of habit, he said when he accidentally deleted my message.
“Are you a creature of habit?”
Since my question came so out-of-the-blue, Jasper raises an eyebrow. “I guess you could say that. I’m comfortable with a routine. I like to know what to expect. I’m not a slave to it, though. I can roll with the punches anytime I need to. What about you?”
“I guess in some ways I am, but I haven’t really had a chance to be.” I finger the paper placemat just for something to do. “I’m like a potted plant that people keep giving away. Once I’m comfortable someplace, I’d like to make my roots there, but I never get a chance to. I can survive frequent transplants, though. I’m pretty resilient. However much I’m moved, I survive. Whatever soil I’m dumped in, I can usually grow.”
Jasper cracks a smile. “See, that’s the kind of plant even I could keep alive.”
Amusement tugs at the corners of my mouth and I look up at him. “Are you a plant killer?”
“I would be, if I owned any plants.”
“I take it you don’t have pets, then.”
“Nope. What about you? Any living things waiting on you back in Syracuse?”
I shake my head, looking down. “Nope. Not even a fish.”
The waitress comes over with a smile on her face and two red tumblers full of ice water. I haven’t even cracked open my menu yet, so we tell her we’ll need another minute and she hustles off to check on another table.
When she comes back, Jasper orders biscuits and gravy and a cup of coffee. Everything looks so good, I have a hard time deciding, but I finally land on Norwegian pancakes with a side of hashbrowns.
I’m not sure how a Norwegian pancake differs from the ones I’m used to, but I find out when the waitress brings our food over. Jasper’s looks and smells great. So does mine, but it looks more like a dessert than a breakfast. The plate is full. The three pancakes are so thin, it looks like they’ve been folded a few times and presented in little triangles on the plate. There’s whipped cream and some kind of berry compote on top.
Everything is so good, I’m not ready to leave when the food is gone. Jasper orders a slice of Butterfinger pie and makes the mistake of offering me a taste. Even though my breakfast was essentially dessert in and of itself, I help him polish off his pie, too.
We decide to get a pie to take home to his family since we’re not far away. I carry the little white box and Jasper opens the door for me again. Maybe because I’m holding the pie or maybe just because he’s a gentleman, he opens the car door, too.
I watch out the window as we drive back to the motel. This town is really small, but I kind of love how it hasn’t been taken over by massive chains. Every storefront I’ve seen so far is local and unique, save for a few practical places—an auto parts store, an insurance salesman, an H&R Block. Pretty much every place is somewhere I’ve never heard of, though—even the banks.
“I think I’d like to live somewhere like this someday,” I remark as we turn back onto the main road.
Jasper nods, looking around like he can see it. “You’d definitely have your privacy. I like that. Maybe someday, if I ever retire,” he says lightly.
I roll my eyes at him, but I can tell by his tone he’s joking this time and not being crazy.
At least, I think.
The feeling of being on a fun little road trip dissipates as soon as we pull back into the motel parking lot. It’s not the memory of being zip-tied to the door handle or threatened into submission that kills the vibe (though maybe it should be). It’s the knowledge that now I have to call Brady, and I still don’t know what to say to him.
This time, Jasper doesn’t put me off. He hands me my phone, but still watches like he doesn’t entirely trust me with it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, weighed down with dread for a minute or so before I finally get up my nerve. My whole chest feels heavy as I tap the screen.