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)
Maybe I’m just crazy. Probably that.
The second sizzle of lightning and a jarring clap of thunder hasten my decision, and I stride toward her window before I know what I’m doing. I attempt to jump and grab the windowsill, which I manage to do, but it leaves me dangling like a dead man, suspended in mid-air. The sill makes a creaking sound that announces impending doom, probably for the both of us. Remi leans further out, her hair trailing like a curtain above me, brushing my knuckles. She’s so soft. I mean, her hair is so soft. The fresh rain scent is pierced by her cinnamon and vanilla scent. Her lips look so soft from this angle, her face so delicate. At the surprise party, I did notice that she was pretty, but this is a completely different angle, and she’s not just beautiful. She’s a goddess of rain peeking out of the window.
“Good lord, go around to the front. I’ll open the door.”
I obey. What else can I do? I walk around to the front of the house and stand on the concrete doorstep. There isn’t much of an overhang, so the rain is still doing its worst to me, but at this point, how much more drenched can “already soaked to the bone” actually become? I’m squishy and squelchy all over, an overused sponge that’s at max capacity. I lean my head against the door with a groan, putting one hand on the metal, though that’s probably a mistake. If lightning decides to strike me down, I’d have two connection points, and one of them is my brain.
Good lord, what on earth was I even doing here anyway? I’ve asked myself that twice now, but maybe the third time is the charm. Why am I here? Nope, still no answers. The door still hasn’t opened. My head is still connected to it. I wait for a valid reason to come to me. I’m sure it’s coming in three, two, one…nope, still nothing. Ah, that’s right. I don’t have one. I know I’m a—what’s the word that people have brought back to use, that ancient word, the one little bastard kids like to sling about on that horrible app Nanny makes me play so I can pass levels she can’t—oh yes, a pleb. A creepy pleb, to top it off.
That’s hardly kind. Give yourself a break. Your life has been a pot of poo stew lately. Also, you’re going to humiliate yourself as soon as she opens the door. You had better just leave now.
Yes, I should leave. I want to leave. I need to get back to Nanny’s house and get my sorry ass into something dry and into bed where it belongs. Except, I’m still here. My head is still connected to the door. That’s what spells out disaster when said door opens, tumbling me—you guessed it—headfirst into thin air. I get my hands out in front of me to try and stop the forward momentum, but all they do is stop my head from breaking my fall on the vinyl flooring. At least there’s a soft doormat here, one which I’m soaking rather ungraciously.
I scramble up, my face burning ten shades of blazing fire. I can practically feel the rain sizzling off with the heat. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer.
Remi is looking at me with the widest eyes and the most shocked expression. She’s changed into a pair of black, skin-tight yoga pants that make her legs and bottom look hecking amazing and a soft-looking fuzzy purple sweater that slides low over one shoulder, revealing an expanse of creamy, perfect skin.
“Are you okay?” She gapes at me. “Can I help you up?”
I rub my wet hands on my wet jeans and lean back into wet shoes. “Nope. I’m good.” Just an imbecile.
“Come inside,” she whispers. “Like, more inside so I can shut the door. I haven’t snuck into my parents’ room yet for a change of clothes, but I’ll find you something. My dad has a spare T-shirt and sweats, I’m sure. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and after you’ve dried out a little and had something hot to drink, I’ll take you home.”
She’s so nice. She’s just so, so nice. I can count on one hand, I mean one finger, how many people have been truly nice to me in the past, oh, let’s say, decade or so. I guess now I need two fingers. Wait, maybe three. Does Curly Cookie count as a person? I just stand there staring at Remi because I’m a soppy sponge and a lost cause who’s frozen in place with a fiery face after faceplanting into her house at three or so in the morning without any explanation, still unable to say anything.
“Umm…” Remi crosses her arms. She’s staring at me, waiting for me to make the next move.