Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“Which basically means he’s a supernerd,” Lennon offered, giving her brother a grin that held far more pride than the mocking Ambrose thought she’d shot for and missed by a country mile.
“Everyone makes fun of us supernerds until they need us,” Peter said. “And trust me, if you’re doing anything worthwhile, that day always comes.”
They heard feet ascending a set of steps somewhere, and then a man walked through a door at the back of the kitchen that Ambrose had thought might be to a pantry but must be to the steps to the garage. A pug-dog scampered in with him, beelining for Ambrose.
“We’re going to have to take turns with the telescope,” Lennon’s dad was saying. “I can’t get the other one to work. Oh! Lennon, you’re here. Peter. And this must be Ambrose, the FBI agent. Happy Thanksgiving. Thanks for joining us.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, sir. Thank you for having me.”
The dog started barking, trotting under the table, where he latched on to the side of Ambrose’s leg and began humping it with gusto.
“Hi, Dad—”
“Freddie, Jesus,” Peter said, tilting his head as he watched Ambrose trying to unlatch the dog. “Mom, your horny dog is humping the guest’s leg again.”
“Oh dear. Freddie! No!”
Everyone started scrambling around the table, Lennon’s chair grating over the floor as she practically jumped to her feet. Mrs. Gray bent and wrapped her hands around Freddie’s midsection and began pulling, Mr. Gray leaning under her and unwrapping the dog’s front legs. Freddie was barking and humping, and everyone was yelling at it, and Ambrose was trying hard to hold back the hilarity that threatened. Because it felt like just moments ago, he’d been standing in the rain trying unsuccessfully to get an Uber, and now he was in the middle of this unfamiliar kitchen, the entire family shouting and trying to pull their dog off his leg. It was . . . surreal.
Mr. Gray finally managed to remove the dog, and he turned with it and headed toward the doors to the deck. “It’s just his instinct,” Mrs. Gray said. “You must smell good.” She leaned forward. “Oh, you do smell good.”
“Mom! Oh my God,” Lennon said, sinking back down into her chair and putting her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“What?” Mrs. Gray asked as she returned to the stove. “That’s a compliment. You don’t want to smell good?” Mr. Gray came back in after delivering Freddie down into the backyard to do his thing on whatever inanimate object he might find. “Honey,” Mrs. Gray said. “Come help me take the Tofurky out of the oven.”
Lennon looked up at him. “You didn’t think it could get worse, did you?”
But Ambrose only grinned.
The Tofurky turned out to be even worse than he’d thought it would be, but the sides were some of the best food he’d ever had. He watched the family interact with each other, and he could feel the affection in the room. These people not only loved each other; they genuinely enjoyed one another as well. He allowed himself to bask in it, even if it wasn’t his. It was how the world should be. It was what everyone should have. And though he had no real right to be here, he was glad he was, because it was a reminder of why he did the work he did. This was the point.
After he and Lennon helped clear the table and Mrs. Gray booted them out of the kitchen, Lennon led him out to the deck, where the sky was already dark. “I hope you don’t mind staying another half an hour,” she said. “My dad will be heartbroken if we don’t watch his comet.”
“I don’t mind.”
The rain had stopped, but this deck space had a fabric covering over it and so only the edge still held some evidence of the rain. He heard the other three Grays still inside having a robust debate about something and glanced at Lennon. “Bitcoin,” she explained with a roll of her eyes. He chuckled, and they both sat down on deck chairs situated near the back of the house.
“There’s a piano in the living room,” he said. “Who plays?”
“Oh. Me. I mean, I used to, but it’s been years. I’ve probably forgotten how to by now. They should get rid of it. It’s just collecting dust.”
Ambrose wasn’t the least bit surprised by the fact that she’d once played piano proficiently enough that her family had bought one. He also knew she hadn’t forgotten, but it confirmed for him that she didn’t realize she still played when she was deep in thought. So why had she convinced herself she no longer knew notes that were obviously muscle memory? He kept trying to form a picture of Lennon and then learned something else that threw off his assumptions.