Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
By the time evening rolled around, I was back in the lounge in front of the huge TV, deflated. Anthony and Dean, who were now as good as best friends, played at the foosball table like some kind of long-lost reunited father and son, laughing and teasing each other every match. My eyes were glued to the screen of my phone, waiting for something that wasn’t just another flirty message from a stranger or request for an interview from so-and-so magazine or a local publication I’d never heard of before. TJ, bored with doing school-related research in his room, came down to join us around ten o’clock in his PJs, and quite suddenly Dean decided he would make us all a tasty midnight snack, utilizing our fancy kitchenette. TJ was curious (but mostly restless and bored) and happily joined Dean to pick up a few tricks to take back to campus with him.
That left Anthony to plop down by my side at the couch. “I’m not sure what’s goin’ on with you and Noah,” he said, “but you got to let it go, man. We’ve all gotta kick some ass tomorrow.”
I snorted. “You make it sound like a sports game.”
“Ain’t it?” teased Anthony right back. “We’re goin’ up on that stage, and if we play it right and get high bids, we win the game. It is a fuckin’ team effort, boy!” He shoved into my side like a football player psyching up his teammate. “And after it’s all said and done, you guys will have all the time in the world to figure out whatever the hell’s goin’ on between y’all.”
“I just wish I knew why he left like that, without a word, like a ninja in the night.”
“I dunno. Maybe he was just giving you the space to be in the zone. He gave it thought, couldn’t sleep, and finally decided he didn’t want to be a distraction for you. Hey, all I know is, the way you two were actin’ with each other at that ranch photo shoot, then how you were in your backyard with …” He let out a choked sigh. “… with that perfect adorable dog of yours, there’s no way in hell that boy doesn’t care about you. An alien from Mars could tell. Just sleep on it,” Anthony urged me as he brought his face closer. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Enjoy this house. Eat the fuck out of whatever snack Dean is cookin’ up. Live it up, because in another day, all this goes away, and we go back to bein’ losers.” He pushed off of the couch and extended a hand. “Get off your ass, Cole, and stop feelin’ sorry for yourself. It ain’t sexy.”
I sighed, figuring he was right. It did me no good to continue worrying about it. Maybe something I said had triggered Noah. My impassioned speech about letting go of fear might’ve accidentally put him right back on that high school stage in his mind, trapping him in a nightmare of permanent fear, until this event is finally over with. It very well could be a prolonged panic attack he didn’t want me to see.
Despite all of my overwhelming doubts, I clung to that bland and frustratingly insufficient conclusion with all my might, then accepted Anthony’s hand and rose from the couch.
I looked him in the eye with a sudden thought. “You know, if you ever wanted to just drop by my house to give Porridge a little lovin’, I know she’d like it a lot. She seemed to really enjoy you.”
Anthony gave me the strangest look right then. “You think I’m gonna drive my ass over to your house just to pet a dog?” He scoffed at me. “What kind of weirdo do you think I am?”
But as we headed to the kitchen to join Dean and TJ, I caught the giddy smile that spilled over his face and knew I had said just the right thing.
And a few hours later before I fell asleep in a room full of vivid rainbow colors swirling out from that nightlight like dreamscapes, I told myself out loud: “I’m giving you space for now, Noah, but I promise you, once this thing is over with, I’m coming for you, and I won’t let you go until you’re mine.”
Those words still ring in my ears.
Even now.
Six minutes before the curtain-that-doesn’t-exist rises.
“Cole?”
I turn to find Tamika dressed all in black with a headset on and a clipboard in her hand.
I’m at once reminded that our dear pageant event has already experienced a handful of unexpected setbacks. One of which being the former stage manager—Malcolm himself—waking up glued to the toilet and “reprehensibly ill” this morning. The last I heard, Samuel is caring for him and shared his professional opinion (to a distressed Nadine) that there is “no way in Malckemy Hell” he can possibly fulfill his duties as stage manager tonight. He has been put on strict bed rest until he feels better—Samuel’s order. Poor Malcolm is likely run down from all of the sunrise-to-sunset work he’s been put through this whole past month straight without end.