Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
When the door opens, the yell of “SURPRISE” is utterly deafening.
I’m peeking out from behind the couch with Kimmy at my back, and Nanny is basically riding horseback style on top of me. I have plenty to brace myself with, and yet the second Van appears in that doorway, blinking like he just stared straight into the sun and got startled because he blinded himself, a galaxy of stars bursts behind my eyes. I take in the man I haven’t seen in nearly a decade and a half—the man who has become a bit of a myth, and alright, maybe a bit of a legend as well, in my head.
At the sight of his tall figure leaning against the doorframe, the paper bag of groceries suspended in one muscular arm, jeans and a T-shirt that hugs and kisses his skin, and a face so handsome that it would make the devil jealous, my brain goes for a catwalk around my skull. Because it’s my brain and skull, it’s a clumsy catwalk, and it blanks out completely. I kiss any coherent thought goodbye while my chest pinches and my stomach flutters.
“You’re drooling on my couch, love,” Nanny mutters.
“That was Curly Cookie,” I force myself to say in my defense. Blame the puppy. Always blame the puppy. Gosh, is there seriously a wet spot forming under my chin? I snap my mouth shut as Van leans and pushes the door closed behind him. The paper bag hits the ground, spilling out a very odd-looking box of baking soda, and I guess that’s the universal cue for us to all come tumbling out of hiding.
As the crowd descends, Van does the most perfectly logical, Van thing to do and makes a fast break through the house, dashing for the patio doors. He slips outside before anyone can accost him and wish him well. He has to know that people are going to follow, but right now, I guess everyone is focused on snacks, descending upon the kitchen table like locusts and grabbing bags of popcorn. Someone puts a real deal vinyl record onto the wicked stereo system that Nanny has in the living room, and music starts pumping so loud that the cops are probably going to get called within the next few minutes.
“Milkshakes!” Kimmy yells in my ear to be heard over the music. “Kitchen. Nanny’s fancy snazzy blender. Now.”
I’d much rather make a fast beeline to the backyard and soak my eyes in the glorious sight of her older brother, who, yes, as it happens, is still a real, living human being and not a fictional conjuring of my overwrought brain and hopeful ovaries working in tandem, but I follow Kimmy to the kitchen.
Kimmy is a blender pro. In no time, she’s got fruit, milk, yogurt, and containers of ice cream spread all across the counter, and she’s got a big list of demands coming up. The kitchen is rowdy, and the noise level threatens to blow our eardrums, but Kimmy is Kimmy, and she keeps demanding space so that our corner of the kitchen doesn’t look like a mosh pit at a rock concert.
I can feel my throat closing up. I’m more like Van, not cut out for way too many bodies in way too small a space. I kind of happen to really dislike crowds, and I’m actually okay with silence, unnatural or otherwise. Kimmy, bless her freaking bestie soul, passes me two milkshakes—chocolate and vanilla.
“You look like you’re going to hyperventilate,” she yells in my direction. I can still barely hear her. “Here. Take these to the backyard. Van loves chocolate.” All he would drink for two straight years, I swear, was chocolate milkshakes. I’m touched by the gesture, but then Kimmy gets that evil glint in her eyes, and I already know what she’s going to say next. “Go put our Operation Information plan into effect.”
“Kimmy…”
“What? Everything is fair in war and war. And this is war. I’m not the one who declared it.”
Right, that would be your dad and his stupid will. Also…shit. All this evil, aka the plan, has a name now.
I stumble out of the patio doors in a daze. There are a few stragglers in the backyard, but lucky for me, almost everyone is still indoors, enjoying the snacks, music, and each other’s company. A few pockets of people—two girls who are probably eight or nine, another group of cackling grannies with their white heads bent together, and a teenage girl and guy making out— are spaced out around the fenced-in yard.
It’s a bit of a wreck back here. The grass is just as tall, blotting out crumbling patio stones, a sagging deck with an ancient barbeque, and flower beds that are in obvious need of tending, weeding, and planting.
Like he’s the light and I’m the moth, the magnet to my magnet, the sun to my Icarus, the—okay, I’m stopping right now—my eyes are immediately drawn to the guy lingering in the far corner of the yard between the dilapidated garden shed and the crumbling, weathered wood fence. His eyes meet mine like a whisky-warmed storm of stardust falling from the heavens, and Operation Be Still My Heart commences.