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)
Every word he utters sends tingles up my neck, actually. “It should also be noted that she clearly lacks a …” I stare into Cole’s eyes. “… penis.”
“Oh.” His voice softens even more. “Valid point.”
It is also a valid point that I’ve now indirectly touched Cole Harding’s penis.
And we both know it.
As we stare into each other’s eyes.
Is this part going into the interview, too?
Cole tilts his head suddenly. “By the way, do you mind that we’re standing so close?”
I open my mouth to speak.
Then stop.
Is this a test? Is he testing me somehow? Why does this feel like some sort of test?
There’s a look in his eye, a challenging look.
My heart may be racing and I don’t know what to do with my face, but I don’t want to be the weird one here, so I answer, “No,” perhaps a notch louder than intended.
Of course I can easily step back from him, or edge a bit to the side, or sit back down in that squishy trap of an armchair. I am by no means coerced into this situation of absurdly close proximity to Cole and his body and his inhumanly beautiful face.
But for some reason, just like before the charley horse that had my hands up his shorts, my legs refuse to move right now. I stay precisely where I am, rooted to the spot like a stubborn oak tree. Each time Cole takes the subtlest of breaths, I hear it, and up and down the back of my neck, I feel it too, like electricity.
I feel it like the potent pull of the tractor beam he apparently installed in the general vicinity of his crotch, which was nearly successful in drawing my innocent face right up against it.
Why am I not moving right now?
Why isn’t he?
It’s the Strongs’ living room all over again. Like we’re a pair of magnets, opposite ends constantly pulled together, determined to collide despite all efforts.
“Good,” he says after a moment, and his smile grows.
What the hell is on Cole Harding’s mind?
The dog—Porridge by name, as I just learned—lets out another shrill yelp, as if to remind us that she’s the one who demanded our attention and helped put a merciful end to our intimate charley horse massage session.
“Hey, here’s a good idea,” says Cole with a snap of his fingers. “How about we take her on a walk around the neighborhood?”
I blink. “You need to … to walk your dog?”
“Why not? We could do the interview as we go.”
“I …” My hands fumble with the notebook, nearly dropping it. It’s practically sandwiched between our bodies, considering that we’re standing so close. The camera, too. “I need to write things down. To take notes. How can I—” His face is so close to mine. Why aren’t either of us stepping away? Is this normal for him? Is this how he has conversations with his friends? Do they mind? “How can I do that while walking?”
Cole gives an innocent shrug. “You have your phone on you, don’t you? Isn’t it normal to record interviews? That way, you can listen back to it later on and quote me down to the syllable.”
“Of course I was going to record us. I just … I meant …” Quite suddenly, I realize I have no point to make. Why not just record it without taking notes? Obviously this is what the others do when they interview people. It’s more natural. It allows for the dialogue to flow uninterrupted.
Provided you’re a normal person who understands how to let dialogue flow.
Or make any at all.
But Cole is confident about this walking idea. And something about his confidence makes me trust him.
And so: “O-Okay, let’s walk your dog then.”
“Let’s walk my dog,” agrees Cole, grinning.
Minutes later, the pair of us are strolling down the street. Cole holds the leash of a much calmer Porridge, who seems less excited about leading the way than she does just to be out of the house for a while. The distant murmur of the crowds attending the second day of the crafts festival can be heard several streets over, though neither of us pay it much mind. I guess we’ve seen enough of it. The mild air drifts past us, neither hot nor cold. The sun is out, but obscured by enough clouds to not feel like fire upon our necks. It is basically a perfect day.
And I’m still burdened with unrest. Suddenly I miss standing close to him in the living room—his living room or the Strongs’. At least when we were standing within ridiculously close proximity of one another, my anxiety had an easy-to-explain reason.
Out here, my nerves are everywhere, and I have no idea what to blame for them. Springtime allergies? Sunlight? Conversation?
How do I start this damned interview? Can I even remember the first question I came up with? I must have reworded it twelve times, yet none of the words come to mind, not even the first one. I can’t even remember how I fell asleep. Did I fall asleep? For some reason, all I can think about is that moment my mother came in and the things she unintentionally revealed to me.