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)
That’s it.
That’s all.
Because that’s all I can afford.
Things I can’t afford: getting attached, learning how to depend on someone again, and more people in my life who would choose him over me if the going got rough and they had to make a choice, which would just be terrible because no one should have to choose between people, ever. It is why Orion has to get on a plane and go back home, and I have to suck it up and remember that I used to enjoy parts of my life before he was in it in any capacity.
San Diego wasn’t actually a vacation like I told everyone, but that’s what it felt like. A vacation. I had a nice time, but it can’t be anything more. It can’t be repeated. People have flings and wild times on vacation, and they’re okay with that because that’s what you do when you go away. You let your hair down because it’s a break from the monotony of real life.
I haven’t eaten much, so when I reach for an obligatory piece of sushi which is rather delicious despite the tension clenching and roiling in my belly, I’m stunned that the platter is empty. It’s literally all been consumed by Orion, who could probably eat his body weight in sushi, and by Mrs. Johnson, who it seems can also consume freakish amounts of the stuff.
“I’m going to go pay,” Orion announces.
Panic hits me at those words. Words I wasn’t going to give him a chance to utter. “Oh, please don’t do that.”
Mrs. Johnson turns to me and pats my hand under the table. “There, there, dear, you can let him pay. Don’t worry. This isn’t one of those indebted or obligatory situations just because he’s a man and he shelled out for dinner.”
“That’s not why,” I insist. How can I explain that I don’t want this to feel like a date? I’m still dressed from work, which means business attire. It makes me feel overdressed and fancy, which makes this feel even more like a date. “I’m not against men paying for things.” I whip my credit card out of my purse. “Here. You can pay. With my card.”
“I can’t do that. I’m not you.”
I roll my eyes, but Mrs. Johnson is sitting right there, so I get my debit card out instead. “Seven, eight, nine, two. There you go. Tip generously.”
“I think he wanted to treat you,” Mrs. Johnson says as Orion slides out of his end of the rounded bench and ignores the plastic fantastic I’m practically waving like a white flag in front of his face.
“I’ve got this,” he says. “My treat. Actually, it’s technically Granny’s. Should I call her and let you tell her that she can’t treat us? She’ll probably have a few protests for you, then likely a lecture. If you want to, though, I’ll dial for you. We can get the green tea ice cream we wanted to try.”
“I’m getting that to go!” Mrs. Johnson looks around frantically. “Shoot, I forgot to ask for it.”
“That’s okay. I’ll get them to pack some up.”
“How does one pack up ice cream?” I ask.
Mrs. Johnson is totally concerned now. “What if it melts on the way home?”
“Hmm. I guess it would be regular green tea, then. You could always pop it back in the freezer and reanimate it.”
“Freezing to reanimate. I like it. I like it a lot. That’s a very good concept. It’s like reverse science!” Mrs. Johnson is clearly thrilled about this new concept, and Orion grins and takes the opportunity to dash away from the table, going up to the front counter to pay.
I huff and sink down a little bit lower. Mrs. Johnson pats her stomach above her elastic waistband, which is hiked up on the high side. Then again, if I were rocking seafoam green pants, I’d probably want to pull those bad boys up as high as I possibly could as well. I’d want to show them off to the world because they are fab. Whoever said seafoam green isn’t a great color just plain sucks at colors.
Mrs. Johnson reaches up and toys with one of her fluffy white curls. She twirls it around her gnarled finger and chuckles even though I haven’t said anything. Maybe she thinks it’s funny how far I’ve just slid under the table. Not fear enough to disappear, it would seem.
“It’s been a long time since I was on a hot date,” she tells me, bending over and down so I can hear her without her having to shout.
“This wasn’t a date,” I protest. I know I’m being silly, so I straighten up, and now she doesn’t have to bend double to have a conversation with me.
She shrugs. “I’m taking it anyway. And you should too. You have one hot husband. Hoo boy. What a lucky lady you are.”