Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Naz is awake before me the next morning… if he even slept at all.
When I climb out of bed and venture downstairs, he's already showered and dressed, standing in the kitchen washing dishes.
It's a peculiar sight, one that makes me pause to appreciate.
His jacket lies on the counter behind him, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his hands submerged in the hot, soapy suds. He scrubs a glass with an intensity that is almost unparalleled, like someone ridding a brick wall of graffiti.
I'm surprised it doesn't shatter in his hands.
The smell of chemicals clings to the kitchen, a strange mixture of bleach and noxious lemon. The floor glistens, everything within eyesight scoured.
I haven't ventured any further in the house, but something tells me the other rooms are just as spotless.
Seeing how Naz doesn't do much cooking, he doesn't have many dishes to wash. He finishes up the glasses before moving on to a knife, washing it so hard with a rag I worry he's going to cut himself. He tosses them all into a dishwasher when he finishes, turning it on to wash them yet again, before turning to me. "Good afternoon."
My expression falls. "Afternoon?"
"Yes," he says, glancing on the counter beside him at where his watch lay. "It's a quarter after twelve."
My eyes widen. "I need to hurry or I'm going to miss my bus!"
"Your bus?"
"My bus home! You know, for Easter? I told you I was going home for the weekend. I'm supposed to catch the bus at 1:30."
He pulls the plug on the water in the sink as he turns to me. "I forgot or I would've woken you."
"I should've reminded you," I say, frowning. It slipped my mind last night to ask him to make sure I was awake.
"I can just drive you," he says as he grabs a towel to dry his hands. "No need to worry about any bus."
"That's crazy," I say, shaking my head. "It would take you all day to get there and back."
"It's only four hours to Syracuse."
"We don't live in Syracuse," I say. "We live about an hour outside of it."
"Not a problem," he says.
"But I just… I can't ask you to do that," I say. "And my mother, she wouldn't like it. She doesn't really like being around people, and I haven't exactly told her… I mean, she doesn't know…"
"She doesn't know you're seeing someone," he guesses, fixing his sleeves.
"Yes," I say. "I'm going to tell her, I am. It's just that…"
"She won't understand," he guesses again.
"Yes," I say. "I appreciate the offer, though. Really. And I'll tell her, but just not right now. If I get back to the city soon, I can make it to the bus."
He grabs his coat and slips it on, fixing the collar. "Get dressed, then, and I'll get you there."
Just as he says, he gets me back to Manhattan on time, even having a spare minute to grab a coffee on the way through. I kiss him, offering a timid smile before kissing him again.
And again.
And again.
"I'll miss you this weekend," I admit, whispering the words against his lips.
"I'll be here when you get back," he says. "Go, before you miss your chance."
I kiss him once more before begrudgingly climbing out of the car, watching as he drives away, heaviness in my chest that I can't explain.
He's my breath of fresh air, and I feel like I can't breathe anymore when he's not around.
My mother is a crazy cat lady, just without all of the cats.
She has a dog instead.
Killer is small mutt she picked up from the side of the road when I was sixteen, the day we moved to Watertown. I don't know what he's mixed with, his fur a tangled mix of gold and dingy white, his ears floppy and eyes unnaturally big. He's as passive as a dog gets—slobbery and loving, downright lazy when it comes down to it. His name is ironic, considering he wouldn't hurt a fly.
Literally. Won't even hurt flies.
Despite the lack of cats, my mother shows all the classic symptoms of a slightly neurotic woman, lacking friends and drowning in paranoia, a quirky hermit pulled right off the pages of something Tim Burton dreamed up. Her hair is a tangled, untamed wave that she lets hang loose, her brown eyes shielded by a pair of glasses with thick black frames.
Her flower shop is not far from the bus station in Watertown, about a mile trek near sundown. I drag my bag behind me as I walk, wanting to surprise her. The shop is a little white barn shaped building with a hand painted sign above it simply reading 'flowers'.
She never even gave the place a name.
I don't know how she gets any business. It astounds me that she makes enough money to pay the bills.
A bell above the door chimes when I step inside, everything brightly lit and sweet smelling. Arrangements of flowers are set up all around, the old cash register on the counter right in front of me with nobody manning it. Killer is curled up on the floor with a chewed up tennis ball. He lifts his head the same time a pair of eyes peeks out from the back room.
"Kissimmee!" My mother bounds out, sprinting right for me, and damn near trips over the dog. She wraps her arms around me as Killer jumps up and down around us, barking excitedly.
"Hey, Mom," I say, hugging her back, before leaning down and rubbing Killer's head. "Hey, buddy."
Killer licks my hand in greeting.
"Did you walk here?" Mom asks, prying my bag from my hand and setting it aside as she assesses me, smoothing my hair and fixing my clothes and downright fussing over me until I push her hands away. "You should've told me. I would've picked you up!"
"It's fine," I say. "It's not that far."
"Still, honey, it's getting late, so you shouldn't be walking alone. You never know what—"
"Mom," I say pointedly, cutting her off before she can launch into her usual lecture on safety. "I'm fine. Really. I've still got all my fingers and toes, my head's still on my shoulders, and I've got no broken bones. No harm done."