Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
So, while Ana sets out her makeup on the kitchen table and is about to attack my face with some new techniques she’s learned, I send Blake an email (obviously we’re not at the texting stage yet).
Hey Blake,
I have my chapter done and wondering when you want to get together to discuss. If it’s easier, I’ve attached it here. Just wanted to touch base on the project and see where it’s all fitting together, before class.
Amanda.
There. Short but not curt. Just enough for him to get the message.
Ana has just finished sponging on primer that feels like wet cement to my face when my phone rings. We both jump and stare at it while an unknown number with our area code flashes across the screen. I glance at her, brows raised. That couldn’t be Blake, could it?
I turn away from her to answer. “Hello?” I ask gingerly, prepared to hang up if it’s a telemarketer.
“Hello peach,” Blake’s British accent comes storming through. “Catch you at a bad time?”
Ana is already smiling like an idiot. I bet she can hear him through the speaker.
“Um, not really,” I tell him, “though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me peach.”
“You don’t think it’s fitting? I can always go back to Big Red.”
“I think Amanda is fitting,” I say crisply. “Why are you calling?”
“You mean why aren’t I emailing you back or texting like a normal person?”
“Stop answering questions with questions.”
He chuckles warmly, although I can hear his insincerity coming through. “Why email and text when I can call you direct and make a plan? Sorry…didn’t mean to make that a question too.”
Well I can’t exactly argue with that. Must be his British genes coming through, doing things the proper way, even though Blake is anything but.
I turn away from Ana even more. “Did you read what I sent you?” I ask, trying to sound as blasé as possible over his potential opinion.
“No. Not yet. Wanted to wait. What are you doing right now?”
“She’s getting a makeover!” Ana yells over my shoulder.
I push her away, trying to shush her while Blake asks, “Who on earth is that?”
“My roommate,” I tell him. “And she’s about to put a shit ton of makeup on me for beauty school practice.”
“Is that a metric shit ton?”
Lord help me, I’m almost smiling. “Yes, a metric shit ton.”
“And when do you think this will all be over?”
“An hour,” Ana shouts before she goes back to rifling through her stuff. She holds up a brush like a serial killer wields a knife, and just as manic.
“Make that an hour and a half,” I say to him. “It’s going to take at least a half an hour to scrub it all off.”
“All right, well give me your address and I’ll come pick you up.”
“And go where? The library is closed.”
“But my apartment isn’t.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that. “How about a café?”
“How about a bar?”
“Caffeine is better than alcohol.”
“That’s not what Hemmingway said.”
“Hemmingway shot his own head off,” I remind him. “And I believe his quote was write drunk, edit sober. We’re plotting and reading, practically editing.”
“You’re no fun, anyone ever tell you that?”
Ouch. That stings more than it should. In fact, I’m more pissed off by the fact that it hurt than the fact that he said it.
“I’m plenty of fun,” I tell him, trying to sound flippant. “I just prefer a more intelligent way of expressing it.”
“Of course, of course,” Blake says, his tone bored now. “Just tell me your address and I’ll come to you in an hour and a half. Figure it all out from there.”
I give it to him and hang up the phone, pushing it away from me across the table.
“That was weird,” I comment, staring at my cell.
“Mmmmm,” Ana muses, wiping the brush across the back of her hand. “Weird but a good sign.”
I sigh and stare up at her. “Don’t tell me it has to do with sex.”
“It’s a good sign that he cares enough about your little project.” She steps back and her eyes volley between my primer-spackled face and her platoon of makeup spread out over the table. “Though perhaps we’ll put off my class practice for another day. Tonight, I’m going to make you look so beautiful you’re not going to want to wash it off.”
“Please, don’t,” I implore her. “I have no one to impress. Just do whatever crazy thing you were going to do. I’m your guinea pig. Go nuts.”
But from the voracious gleam in her eyes, I wish I hadn’t said that.
I’m not really sure what she attacks me with. After she removes my glasses, it’s all kind of a blur of pointed, colorful instruments jabbing me in the face.
When she spills heavy duty eyelash glue all over the desk and then cries out what I have to assume are Estonian swear words, there’s a knock at the door.