Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
By the time I get home from visiting my grandmother I am drained, parboiled, finito. All I want to do is get into my crappiest sweats––the ones that are threadbare, full of holes and feather soft––and eat. Eat everything I can get my grabby hands on.
To that end, I’m happily stuffing my face with pizza when a man walks into the living room. And when I say man, I mean part deity because holy cow patties he looks like he could walk on water. I stop chewing as my eyes do a slow, appreciative perusal of him.
“Hot date?” I casually throw out for consumption. Not that I expect him to answer in the affirmative since I have yet to see him show any interest in any female since I’ve moved in.
He stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his suit pants and…says nothing. Hmm. His gaze moves away from me and my stomach slowly starts to sink.
“It is a date,” I blurt out. A nasty prickling sensation burns my gut and travels all the way to my throat. His face is tight, his eyes shifty. He takes his cell phone out and glances at the time.
“I should get going.”
Someone’s stabbing my chest. Why is someone stabbing my chest? “Really? Wearing that?” I deadpan, my mouth running away with me while my brain struggles to comprehend what the fuck is happening. A date? He’s going on a date? No, no, I won’t allow it, it keeps saying.
He looks down. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing––if you like looking desperate.”
A frown doctors his face. He seems conflicted about something. Although, what do I know? I couldn’t have predicted this if I had a goddamn crystal ball.
“I don’t have time for this.” He turns to leave but pauses mid step, like he’s about to say something else. The earth stops spinning in that moment. I hold my breath and hope for…I don’t know what I hope for. In the end, he keeps his silence and continues walking. My mood plummets another thousand feet as I stare at his back. I haven’t been this demoralized since I was five and discovered Santa didn’t exist because I caught a very loud and drunk Eileen, having returned from a date, wrapping presents at one am. There was more tape than actual paper on my gifts that year.
“Have fun,” I say weakly. He waves as he disappears around the corner.
Have fun? No. Do NOT have fun. Have a goddamn miserable time as a matter of fact. I hope she falls and skins her knees. I hope she chips her perfectly polished nails.
Snatching up my cell, I dial the number of the one person I know I can hoist one long, uninterrupted rant on. “Harp, you busy? Good. Meet me at that crappy sports bar on Second and Seventy-First. Yep, see you in twenty.”
The bar is small and dark, more likely frequented by bus drivers and construction workers than Upper East Side professionals, therefore it’s easy for Harp and me to share a drink and catch up without him being harassed every two minutes for autographs or disgruntled assholes that lost money on fantasy football because Justin ‘didn’t do them a solid’.
I get there before Harper does and waste no time filling the hole in my gut that feels a lot like jealousy and disappointment with vodka tonics. The Knicks game is playing on the small television in the corner, the low buzz of conversation is all around me, and yet I don’t hear or see a thing.
“You started without me?” a familiar voice calls out. “This must be bad.”
I look over my shoulder and find Justin smiling down at me, dimples on full display, the flat brim of his Mets baseball cap pulled low and his disheveled brown hair spilling out the sides. He pulls his hands out of the front pockets of his dark designer jeans and shrugs off his down jacket, places his phone and keys on the bar, and takes the stool next to mine.
Three hours and who the hell knows how many drinks later––I certainly wasn’t counting––I’m still listening to him drone on about his ex-girlfriend. Insert gun in mouth, pull trigger.
“She’s the one that got away.”
It takes a minute for it to sink in (alcohol and such). For me to give him my most disdainful glare. “Why do people say that? Why is that a thing? She’s not a lost child. It’s not like she casually wandered away when you weren’t looking. You didn’t lose her. She sprinted away.” The hurt look on his face that I’m not drunk enough to ignore makes me pause. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m drunk and angry and…don’t listen to me. What do I know? I don’t know jack.”
“What is it with you tonight? Why so pissy?”