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)
And from Cole’s side at long last.
That’s how I end up among the circle of adults around the kitchen island, positioned rather strategically between Burton and Tamika. No one seemed to notice my absence, and no one notices my appearance either. Hanging out aloofly in the living room was my subtle way of avoiding any socializing—as usual.
Until Cole appeared.
He’s standing at the other end of the kitchen island opposite me now. And he appears to be trying to catch my eyes.
But every time we make eye contact, I look away. I decided he is only paying attention to me because of what happened today. If it wasn’t for my obliviousness, no one would be in trouble tonight, Cole wouldn’t be injured, and for all I know, none of us would be gathered here in this house at all.
Whatever tasty finger foods I placed on my plate have gone untouched. Well, except for one of the carrot sticks, which I keep picking up, taking a nibble of, then putting right back down.
Is it weird that I’m grateful no one else has talked to me or asked me anything so far? I much prefer it this way. Maybe it’s why I chose to stand between Tamika and Burton. If any questions are hurled our way, either of them can speak for the Spruce Press. I think it is fair to say the paper—and something related to the incident today—is the clear and obvious reason we’re here.
I really wish Mrs. Strong would just tell us why she invited us over, get this whole thing done with, and let us go home in peace. She and Tanner are taking turns telling a story about her mother-in-law who’s in town. Billy now and then chimes in with a funny anecdote of his own. Nadine’s husband nearby chuckles softly at everything they say, cheeks rosy and a glass of wine in his hand, soft-spoken as ever. Everything is so sweet, lovely, and endearing.
Really, this is just torture.
I look across the island, perhaps to wonder if Cole is similarly exhausted of this banter—only to discover him missing.
I blink and adjust my glasses. Where’d he go?
“Hey.”
I nearly drop my plate as I turn to find Cole standing right by my side, taking place of Tamika who was there a second ago, his bright and striking eyes on mine.
“Sorry,” he says right away. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I just meant to ask earlier if you’re okay. I mean, you look okay. Seem it, too. Are you okay?”
Is he wearing cologne? Does he smell this good on accident?
Must be exhausting to be so well-presented all the time.
I try to tell him I’m okay, realize my voice isn’t working, then simply settle on a nod.
“Good,” he says, graciously accepting my nonverbal response. “I was worried about you all day. I tried finding you at the festival after the doctor discharged me, but you’d gone already.” Then he chuckles. “‘Discharged’ … sounds a bit too dramatic, huh?”
Worried about me all day? Is he serious? I lift my eyebrows. “You looked for me?”
“I … well, yes.” Cole smiles. “I’m glad you’re doing okay. That’s what I was worried about. Uh, like I said.” Then he looks off.
Why is he so worried about me? I don’t have a scratch on me.
I glance at his arm. “Is it bandaged up?”
He returns to me. “What?”
“I noticed you’re wearing a jacket. With sleeves. I just made a quick assumption, considering the temperature isn’t that low.”
“Oh. Wow, you’re … observant.” He inspects his sleeve for half a second, then seems to shrug it off. “No, I just like this jacket. Not covering up any gruesome flesh wounds. I simply wanted to … feel stylish … or something.”
He doesn’t want to admit his arm is bandaged up. He probably doesn’t want me to feel any more guilty than I already do. If that’s the reason, that’s nice of him.
But why is he being so nice?
And why is he being so extra attentive?
“You don’t have to worry,” he adds. “I’m totally fine. It looked way worse than it was.” Then he leans in toward me. “No necro-asphyxi-itus,” he says in a tiny, playful voice.
I grimace.
That’s not the word. At all. Not even close.
But what is close is his body once again—right beside mine, arm pressed against my arm, shoulder against my shoulder, and his face astonishingly close. With just a rough calculation, I’d say there’s easily room for about six more people to crowd around this large kitchen island before he would be required to squeeze in so close to me. Even then, I’m sure some of us would’ve taken a step back to allow more space.
Is this normal distance for him?
If we’re going to continue communicating, am I going to have to get used to this consistent breach of my personal security?