Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“You live here. Alone.” In this house, which is a thousand times nicer than the one I grew up in.
He doesn’t look at me, instead pushing on the driver’s side door and hopping out. “Are you coming in, or are you gonna ask me thirty more questions?”
I roll my eyes and grab my purse. “That was only like, three questions.” Hop out of the car. “Why are you being weird?”
But he’s already opening a door, light streaming from a small room at the side of the garage.
It’s a laundry room—he has an actual laundry room!—shoes lined up by the door, a few sets of shirts and pants neatly folded and stacked in tidy piles atop the washer.
I am so confused.
Bending to unzip the booties I’m wearing, I slide them off, placing them by the door. Next to his giant ones. Smoothing my hands down the front of my dress, cringing when I hit the wet spot, I gingerly follow him across the tile floor and into a well-lit kitchen.
Onto the polished hardwood floor.
The kitchen looks state-of-the-art and updated, almost like a showroom, and I rest my hands on the cold counter, clasping my fingers to give them something to do.
I am so out of my element. I wasn’t raised in a place like this, let alone live in one at age twenty-one.
Who is this guy and where does he come from?
Not the backwoods of Arkansas, that’s for damn sure.
I bite my tongue to stop the steady stream of questions in my brain from vomiting out of my mouth.
Why does he live here? Who pays for it? Is he selling drugs on the side to pay for all this? Is he a trust fund baby? Who owns this joint? Why doesn’t he have roommates? Does he have a job?
“Want something to drink?” he wants to know, standing at the sink, running the tap. Filling a glass and lifting it to his lips.
“Uh, surrre.”
His long arm reaches over, retrieving another glass from the cabinet made of rich wood. Fills it and slides it slowly across the center island.
I cradle it between my hands, thumbs stroking the cool, smooth glass. Fidgeting, unable to keep still.
This whole thing is so bizarre.
***
KIP
Me: On a scale of 1 to fucking terrible, how bad of an idea was it to bring a girl back to my place?
Ronnie: Depends on the girl
Me: Hey big sister, I’m shocked you’re awake! What the hell are you doing up?
Ronnie: The text notification woke me up, asshole!
Me: Liar
Ronnie: You’re right—your brother-in-law just got done doing nasty, unspeakable things to me. Oh, sorry, was that TMI?
Me: Jesus Christ Veronica, I didn’t need to know you were just having sex
Ronnie: Who said anything about sex?
Me: ANYWAYYYYYYYYY—about this girl…
Ronnie: Right, well, if she’s already at your place, not much you can do about it, yeah?
Me: Gee, thanks
Ronnie: It’s true. Besides, if you brought her home, she must not be terrible—we all know what you’re like
Me: What am I like?
Ronnie: A complete freak?? I mean, look at what you did to your beautiful face just so girls would leave you alone. Now you’re bringing them home? You must be hard up
“Um…so, you live here alone?” The girl’s sweet but incredulous voice carries through my kitchen, her finger sliding along the edge of the cold, hard granite countertop.
“Yeah.” I can’t look at her as I dump my keys and phone onto the built-in desk next to the double ovens where I store all my crap, the texts from my older sister, Veronica, already forgotten. Everything glistens and shines because the cleaning lady was here yesterday morning picking up my shit, washing my clothes, folding them, and dusting what little putzy stuff I have set out.
Not my choice—she was hired by my mother—and Christ, if anyone found out I had a cleaning lady, I’d never live it down.
“Where did you find this place? Jesus, it’s so nice.”
“The landlord takes great care of the place,” I joke, because I’m the landlord—but she doesn’t need to know that.
She scoffs. “Who the heck are you renting from? No one who owns anything around campus, that’s for sure. None of those guys give a shit—those houses are complete dumps.”
She’s correct; most of the houses are total shitholes, which is why I don’t rent. I own this place—well, my parents do, but that’s always been their thing: buying whatever house my sister and I happen to be living in at the time so we don’t have to deal with rent and landlords.
“Who do you rent from? It can’t be DuRand—his places might be nice, but they’re not this nice, and not in this neighborhood. What’d you do, rob a bank?”
“Yeah, it’s not DuRand.”
I feel her staring at my back—my bare back because I still haven’t put a clean shirt on—the wheels in her brain turning.