Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Maybe guilt could be blamed for making me suffer in twenty-five-degree weather, but I didn’t think so. For one thing, I had no conscience. For another, even if I had one, I’d put it to work forcing her to marry me—not failing to check on her for forty-eight hours.
Every now and then—re: seven-minute intervals, on the dot—I texted Hettie, demanding an update regarding Dallas’s health.
Romeo Costa: How is she feeling?
Hettie Cook: Not well, but you already know that. She took Tylenol and drank some water. I’m making her avgolemono soup right now.
Romeo Costa: Is her fever down?
Hettie Cook: Between five minutes ago, when you last asked me, and now? No.
Hettie Cook: Fevers always spike in the evening, so don’t worry about it.
Romeo Costa: I called the doctor. He is going to pay her a visit in the next forty minutes.
Hettie Cook: Forty minutes?
Hettie Cook: I hope she’s going to make it till then.
Romeo Costa:???
Hettie Cook: I’M KIDDING. SHE IS JUST A LITTLE SICK. JESUS. CHILL.
I was so chill, I couldn’t feel my nose, let alone my balls.
Romeo Costa: You’re fired.
The night crawled, minute by minute, refusing to disperse into morning. The doctor arrived and determined Dallas’s fever needed to break, winning the Most Useless Doctor Award in my head. He prescribed her rest, fluids, and cold compresses. For what it was worth, Hettie agreed with my analysis.
Hettie Cook: Did you have to hire the Director of EMERGENCY Medicine at Johns Hopkins? The poor dude looked so confused when he realized Dal isn’t on her deathbed.
Romeo Costa: You thought he was useless, too?
Hettie left when Franklin and Natasha arrived, which forced me to tone down my texts. I attempted to be reserved with my sister-in-law, seeing as Dallas particularly enjoyed talking shit about me with her.
Romeo Costa: Is she feeling better?
Franklin Townsend: Like you care.
Romeo Costa: It’s a yes or no question.
Franklin Townsend: No improvement.
Romeo Costa: Keep me posted.
Franklin Townsend: You’re not the boss of me.
Romeo Costa: God, you’re a brat. I wish very much for Oliver to end up with you when you finally come of age.
Franklin Townsend: What?
A decade after the night had begun, the sun finally cracked through the silver sky, pale and reluctant. The store opened. People rushed in. It took me fifteen excruciating minutes to make it to the register.
The prepubescent cashier opened the book, leafing through it while he rang me up. “Can’t wait to see how Henry handles The Duke of Hollowfield, huh?”
I yanked my card from my wallet. “Mind the spine before I break yours.”
He gaped at me, almost fumbling the hardback in his rush to close it. “Bag?”
“Give it to me. I don’t trust you not to wrinkle the book any further.” I tucked it inside the bag and wrapped it tight.
As Jared wove through tree-lined streets, passing mammoth mansions, manicured lawns, and lavish holiday decorations, I couldn’t help but feel a little unsteady about my newly acquired Christmas gift for Dallas. Originally, I’d purchased a spa weekend in Tennessee for her to enjoy with Franklin, but this seemed so much more significant. I would not call the unsettling rush coursing through me giddiness, but I was definitely not unhappy in this moment.
When I reached the house, it was still early enough that Vernon hadn’t arrived. A sleepy-eyed Hettie stumbled into the kitchen, retrieving the pastry dough she prepared each night for Dallas’s breakfasts.
I stopped by the island, clutching the book in a death grip as though it was in danger of being stolen by the furniture. “Is Dallas in her room?”
“She was asleep when I came in, but Frankie said her fever went down.”
“How’s she feeling?”
Hettie yawned, collecting her pink-tipped hair into a high ponytail. “Good enough to reject every brand of cough syrup we’ve given her.”
“Why?”
“Says they taste bad.”
“It’s medicine. It’s not supposed to taste good.”
“It’s pretty bad. The label says it’s grape, but it smells like pickles and spam.” Her nose scrunched. “Between Vernon, her family, and several of the staff, we checked every pharmacy in the DMV for pills. Sold out. The pharmacist says there’s a nasty bug going around.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I snatched the offending bottle from the counter. “Are her sister and mother with her?”
“Frankie, yeah. Natasha went to sleep in a guest room. Guess she felt like she could take a break because Dal’s feeling better.”
I took the stairs two at a time. With each step I climbed, my spirits lifted. The lilt of Shortbread’s sweet, bell-like voice filled the corridor. Quiet, but unmistakably her. Why did it take me until today to realize I enjoyed her voice? Her sound? Her general existence? Maybe because it marked the one thing that wasn’t complete silence that my ears cherished.
When I reached her door, I raised my fist, intending to knock. I couldn’t wait to show her the book. Childish pride filled me. I supposed this was what kids felt when they did something they knew would grant them their parents’ approval. I wouldn’t know. My parents rarely paid attention to my existence.