Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
At the moment, it's just the two of us at the shop. We're between appointments. Usually, that means an enjoyable silence. Well, an enjoyable lack of conversation, scored by whoever picked today's music. Since it's his turn, that means one of those melancholic singer-songwriters his girlfriend loved.
We're supposed to sit and work.
But now that he has a toehold, he's in full attack mode. Well, Patrick's very chill version of full attack mode. See, now that Patrick found love, he sees it everywhere. He wants it for everyone.
He doesn't understand romantic love is different for me. It's not whispered secrets and honeymoon suites. It's marriage, fighting, divorce, treating your kids as pawns in a war against your former spouse.
Better to stop before you start.
I tap a reply.
Dare: How was the flight?
Val: Long.
Dare: Like my brother's lectures?
Val: Worse.
Dare: That's possible?
Val: I didn't think it was, but here we are.
"You like her." Patrick slides onto the counter and stretches his arms over his head. Easy. Happy. Ready to torture me.
"Don't you have a client?" I shrug as if I'm unmoved by his accusation. No. I am unmoved. Val is my best friend. Of course, I like her. But I don't like like her. That's just ridiculous.
"You want her."
"I want coffee."
"If I buy you a coffee, will you admit the truth?"
"What truth is that?"
He laughs, amused by my response—our normal repertoire. Patrick and I have been friends for as long as Val and I have been friends. Only he's like me, too cool for school, sitting on the sidelines, laughing at everyone taking everything too seriously.
Or he was. Until he fell in love.
"How about one of those?" Patrick nods to the Keurig on the counter.
"Coffee from a pod is going to extract my secrets?"
"So you have secrets?"
I roll my eyes.
He smiles, certain. "You're a bad poker player."
"When have you ever played poker?" I ask.
"That's your tell."
"What's your tell? Saying stupid shit?"
"Nah, that's my default." He shifts back to our usual I'm dumber than you banter, but he doesn't drop it. "How is she?"
"How am I supposed to ask if I keep talking to you?"
"It is hard, doing two things at once."
I nod exactly and turn my attention to my texts.
Dare: Heading to your mom's house?
Val: I want to shower, then sleep, then dive into the Pacific Ocean.
Dare: In that order?
Val: It might be 3 a.m.
Dare: Call me.
Val: Wake you at 3 a.m.?
Dare: Better than waiting until ten to see you.
Val: I'll call that bluff.
Dare: When have I ever bluffed?
Val: When you said you'd kiss Alex if I didn't!
Dare: I would have done it.
Val: Uh-huh.
Dare: Try me.
Val: Where are we going to find him?
Dare: Instagram.
Val: So, what? We message him on Instagram, say, "remember the girl you dated for two weeks in ninth grade? Val? She needs to talk to you."
Dare: You should probably lead with the kiss.
Val: "Either Val or her best friend Darren is going to kiss you. If you're lucky…"
Dare: He'll get me.
Val: Obviously.
Patrick laughs and shakes his head why don't you see it?
"Aren't you here to work?" I ask.
He glances at his watch. "In ten minutes."
There are fifteen until my next appointment. Just my luck.
Most days, I'm happy to trade barbs or banter. Most days, I'm happy to linger at Inked Love for hours. This place is home as much as Val is.
But it's a different kind of home. One where I access a different part of myself. And I need the other part. The Val part.
Val: We're at the gate! Finally. I need to move.
Will she hate me if I wake her up?
Val: See you in the morning.
Dare: At 3 a.m.
Val: I'll do it.
Dare: I'm waiting.
The bell rings, stealing my attention. My client. She's early.
Perfect.
She asks for the bathroom and slips away, leaving Patrick far too long to attempt to torture me.
"Do we need to look at this again?" He holds up his cell phone to reveal Val's Instagram. A picture of Val on the beach, in Barcelona, specifically. In a very skimpy string bikini.
And, sure, yeah, objectively speaking, she looks good. But there's no reason to linger over the image. Val is Val. I love her, whether she's a dork with a ponytail and braces or a knockout with curves in all the right places.
(She's still a dork, even if she can now pass for a plus-size model).
"Keep it for your spank bank," I say.
"Really? You don't mind me spankin' it to your bestie?"
"It's a free country."
"Uh-huh." He shoots me a get real look. One of his signatures. Only his green eyes are sparkling with teasing energy. (Really, sparkling, like a vampire in a cheesy teen romance). "And you don't say that just because you know I'm saving my juice for Imogen."
"TMI."
"Since when is there a TMI here?"
"Since you referred to your juice."
He laughs. "You haven't really looked at it."