Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I realize I’m standing behind her, probably too close, smelling the general air around her because it’s delicious and grinning as though I’ve just seen the rain for the first time after eight thousand days of straight sun. I want to dance in that rain.
I step back to dial down the whole creep factor and shove my hands into my pockets. If I could just say the right thing, something to convince her that things would be okay if she just took the first step, that would be great. Just something. Anything.
Unfortunately for me, my inspiration well is hecking dry at the moment.
There is no grand speech, no eloquent words. Instead, there are some clicking noises and then the sound of the printer. Brrrrpppp. Brppppp. Brpppp. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. The printer whirs, and the pages fall, one after the other. Each one of them hitting the tray is like an axe swinging above my bared neck.
Well, isn’t that just grim?
I whirl around, my hands still in my pockets, and walk to the other side of the room. Come on, brain. Now would be the time. Give me something. Just one word. One word that could delay this and save this. Something that would convince her not to be so afraid and to give us a chance. Just one step. A first step. Just one word. The first word. Fuck. My heart starts thumping even harder. Whyyyyy are you so blankkkkk, brainnnnn?
Suddenly, Echo is breathing heavily—basically, full-on panting. I turn around to see what the heck is going on, ready to jump into action if she’s having a delayed allergic reaction to something we ate tonight, but she seems fine on that front. Her shoulders are heaving, and her eyes are huge, the pupils dark. She has a deer in the headlights—the one where it’s about to become venison pancake slash deer sausage, which is just fucking terrible—look on her face.
“Do you think life is like a sale on ham?” she blurts out, and I swear her eyes get a fraction wider. What fraction, though, I’m not sure. Five-eighths, maybe, but I’ve always been terrible at that kind of math.
I’m so thoroughly thrown into a confused-as-hell loop that I don’t even know where to begin, but I can tell this is important. It’s not a test sort of important, but it’s obviously important to her in a big way. I don’t want to try and pick the right answer. I just want to be honest.
“Umm, I’m not really sure. I guess it would depend on what part of life, maybe what moment in that part, how good the sale is, and what grade and cut of ham, if you like ham—all of that. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t enjoy a good sale, though, if that helps. Also, I think ham is delicious…if that counts for anything. So, to answer your question…maybe? It would be like a ham alert? A ham attack? Ham is versatile, and it can be eaten in so many ways. I would say you can never have too much ham. It’s excellent with scalloped potatoes and corn. I think that would be a solid meal.”
She doesn’t say anything, but her striking blue eyes never leave my face.
“I’ve grown at least six gray hairs since you left,” I admit. “I found three just this morning while I was brushing my hair and packing my bag before I got ready to drive to the airport.”
“I…I see,” she finally mumbles.
Come on, brain. You can do better than that. “I don’t know how, but the house wasn’t the same without you. I mean, no, I do know how.” Nice. Classic and smooth. “The treehouse definitely wasn’t the same.” Can I just die now?
“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes.”
“Mistakes? The treehouse wasn’t a mistake. And the wedding? I’m not even sure that was a mistake.”
“Whose wedding? Our wedding? That was for sure a mistake.” She waves her hand in the direction of the printer and at all the sheets of paper she hasn’t picked up and handed to me yet. “One we can undo.” Her voice wavers just a little.
Was that supposed to be a question? It sure sounded like a question. Suddenly, it’s impossible for me to swallow. If I could just stop noticing the way Echo’s pencil skirt fits her like a glove, how pretty her blouse is, how lovely and soft her hair looks swirling around her shoulders, and how pillowy plump her lips are, it would probably help my brain function. As it is, my blood pressure spikes, and I think I just sprouted another gray hair on the spot. I’m probably standing here with a constipated look on my face, and that’s sure as hell not helping anything.
“I don’t know what to say,” I blurt. “I don’t know what to say to convince you to give us another chance. I really did come down here to fix the papers, but I wouldn’t like to. In fact, I’d like to take you back to San Diego with me. Even if we don’t belong together, you belong with our family. I know you do. It was like I knew it the second you showed up on our doorstep. There was this part of me that just got slammed with it, like when you look at the grass and know it’s green. It was that obvious.”