Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Diego is athletic, bulky, a partier, and kind of not so studious and smart.
Shit. Is that a rude thing to say?
Our conversations haven’t been the best, which would be fine if we had other things to fill the silence with, like, say—kissing? But we rarely do that either.
Confession No. 2: Diego and I haven’t slept together. Not yet, anyway, though not for my lack of trying.
He’s a linebacker on the football team. Aren’t those sports guys supposed to be all horny and want to bang, like, all the time? Diego doesn’t seem to care either way.
We’ve been dating long enough I should expect some sort of major sex effort on his part. Groping at the very least. At a minimum, he should try to kiss me without always asking if I want him to kiss me—that’s getting old.
One can only use toys for so long when there’s actual, real live dick involved.
I mean honestly, come on. What’s a girl got to do to get laid around here?
“I have no idea why he asked me out in the first place, but I can assure you, if he got a boner every time he saw me, we’d have slept together by now.”
Great. Now I’m talking to myself.
Diego is a catch. He is. But sometimes I’d rather come home and bathe a cat than sit through a date with him. Yawn.
He’s sweet, though on the shyer side. In great shape. Friendly.
Anyway, we’re taking it slow.
Super slow.
Like—at a glacial pace.
My friends told me to give the guy a chance, so I’m giving the guy a chance even though I’m still very undecided about him and where this is headed. Are we just wasting time, or is there potential here?
Can a relationship grow if there’s no zing or zap when you touch?
I grab my jacket off the chair when I breeze through the kitchen, slipping into a pair of comfortable boots. I have a long shift at the diner and will be on my feet the entire time, so the sweater and comfy shoes are a must.
“Please let us be busy tonight so I can keep my mind off things,” I mutter, grabbing my house keys off the hook and jamming them in my cross-body bag. Give the door a yank when I’m in the hall to make sure it’s good and locked.
Bzzt, bzzt.
My cell buzzes in my back pocket.
Diego: Hey, whatcha up to?
Ryann: Heading to work! You?
Diego: Just got done with practice. Jake is taking us for pizza.
Jake is his roommate and not a member of the team, but it seems like they spend a ton of time together.
Ryann: Pizza? Yum, my favorite. What will you have on it?
Diego: Dunno. Meat lovers probs.
I rack my brain for something new to say. I’ve noticed Diego isn’t great about reciprocating questions, so the conversation usually dies unless I keep it going.
Another text comes through before I can send one off.
Diego: Gonna have to take a rain check for tomorrow.
He’s canceling?
Disappointment dips in my stomach. Tomorrow is Friday and the only night this week he had available to get together. I made reservations at a nice place, a moody steakhouse where we could talk and have a drink and possibly get romantic for like, the first time ever.
Guess not.
Ryann: Oh. Okay, sure. I understand.
I understand? He hasn’t even told me the reason he can’t make it. Doesn’t offer an excuse.
Cool
Cool.
I stare at my phone before pushing through the door of my apartment complex. Stare some more. Finally step outside, eyes still glued to my phone.
I’m so tempted to ask what he’d rather be doing than taking me on a date, but I resist the temptation, not wanting to sound thirsty or desperate or too eager.
Okay well, gotta bounce, guys are here.
Ryann: Have fun! Eat a slice for me.
Diego: *thumbs up*
I stare at that emoji, recounting every argument I’ve ever had with my friends and parents regarding its use, the general consensus that it means fuck you or is used by someone too lazy to type out an actual sentence.
Stuffing my phone back in my pocket, I burrow deeper into my jacket, the wind whipping as soon as I step outside, the frigid cold a shock but not a surprise. Certainly has me hustling down the street toward the diner downtown, has me wondering what I’m going to do when there’s snow on the ground and it’s too cold to walk.
I don’t have a car.
Don’t have a bike.
Those little electric scooter things aren’t really my style, not even when I’m drunk.
Especially when I’m drunk—which isn’t that often, but still. Nobody wants me on one of those things, driving on the sidewalk after I’ve had alcohol, except perhaps my girlfriends so they can have a laugh.
Speaking of friends, mine is already at work when I walk through the back door of ROSCOE + MIMI, a divey diner that hasn’t changed since the late sixties, though it’s changed owners at least a dozen times—once since I’ve been working here.