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)
Her questions and knowhow are always peppered with smiles, sweetness, and compliments. No one ever feels interrogated, even if they’re left standing with wide eyes and jaw slackened. I learned everything I know from this woman—far more than I learned from my own parents.
“But enough about me! How’s your grandson here?” asks Ms. Ducasse. She passed my Nan on the street and stopped for a chat. They go way back. “Look at him! He’s so stunningly handsome! Too handsome. Even when he was a student in my class just a few years ago … my, how he’s grown, still the lady killer! Have you caught yourself a special gal yet?” she then asks me directly.
I smile politely. “You’re so sweet, Ms. Ducasse, but I’ve just been keeping busy and—”
“He’s gayer than a sack of Blow Pops, Irma, have you been livin’ under a rock?” cuts in my grandma.
Ms. Ducasse swallows her mouth. “I—I suppose I must’ve—”
“And sadly, no,” Nan goes on, her voice turning into molasses the next breath. “I doubt there’s a man or woman fitting enough to date my little prince.” She pats me on the cheek like I’m still six-and-a-half, tugging on her dress and begging to taste-test her cookies before dinner. “Do you know that Nadine tried settin’ him up with a boy from Fairview? Didn’t work out, no it didn’t, but my grandson is so noble, he didn’t let it break his spirit one bit. Look at those eyes. They call him Mr. Perfection, and I can’t think of an eligible bachelor more deserving of such a title in all Texas.”
I give an apologetic grimace to my paralyzed former math teacher before nudging my grandma. “I’m sure there’s one or two flaws somewhere in me if you look close enough.”
“Not a chance,” states my grandma proudly.
Ms. Ducasse leans forward and lowers her voice. “Come to think of it, I do know a single young man in town. I don’t know if he’s gay, but goodness, he sure could use a nice friend. Are you close with the Myers? They just had to put down their family dog last fall, and—”
“It’s been lovely catchin’ up, Irma, but we’re here on a mission and there’re only so many hours in the day. Why, have you done somethin’ with your hair? I love that look for you!”
Ms. Ducasse beams at once. “It’s bangs! I have them now!”
The women give a quick hug, then part ways. My Nan hooks her arm into mine, and under her breath she whispers, “I love you, Cole, but you’ve gotta set your bar higher than the Myers.”
I bite my lip and suppress a few possible responses, settling with: “Thanks, Nan.”
Despite what most of the population of Spruce apparently believes, I’ve never seen myself as an attractive person. I’m always staring into mirrors wondering what the heck others see. Maybe I’m seen as handsome on the outside, but inside, I am nothing but a tangled knot of insecurities and second-guessing. Should I wear a white shirt today or will I be eating something that can stain it? Should I plan my lunch ahead of time so I know? How should I fix my hair? Will the wind sabotage my efforts anyway? But isn’t it important to look my best for my job at the gym? Will my bosses Jimmy and Bobby think less of me if I relax my efforts just a little, if even one strand of hair is out of place or my pants aren’t ironed?
It’s a lot of pressure, to be forced to uphold such a standard—especially one I never wanted in the first place. I can’t say whether I’ve always been like this, or if it’s others’ expectations of me that made me so neurotic inside. A classic chicken-or-the-egg question. Even my Nan started calling me by that cheeky nickname that somehow got around and stuck to me: Mr. Perfection.
Some days, I wish I could just leave my house with my natural bedhead and twenty cowlicks. Shirt untucked. Mismatched socks. Face greasy and unshaven.
Honestly, that sounds like heaven.
A kid races past us, nearly knocking over my grandma. “Sorry, sorry!” he shouts over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd ahead. He’s pursued by a couple of other kids, who scurry right on by to catch him, playing a game of tag to amuse their bored and restless selves, I have to guess.
“Goodness … kids these days. Where are the parents?” My Nan lets out a breathless laugh. “Cole, my dear, while I do appreciate you taking me out today, I could have come here by myself just as easily, you know. I’m sure you have more important things to do with your day than walk an old lady around town.”
“Wouldn’t trade my time with you for the world,” I assure her as we turn the corner onto Main Street, passing Biggie’s Bites, everyone’s favorite burger joint. On the curb, a guy named Mick is wearing a sandwich board promoting festival specials. “Nothing’s needed on the cousins’ farm, and I’m off from work today.”