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)
"You must have missed him."
"A normal amount for a friend." Wow, that sounds natural. And believable. I move to the sink, fill a glass, swallow a sip. Then another. Another. "You look good together."
"We do?" Her brow furrows.
"Yeah. With the cool style and the tattoos. It fits."
"You've met my boyfriend?"
Do I really have to say it out loud? "Yeah… Dare and I…"
"Oh my god, ew. No." Her face scrunches in distaste. "No way. No offense. I mean, Dare is handsome and everything, but we've been friends so long. And I'm over the moon with Ollie."
Ollie? Is that… Oliver? Another tall, dark, handsome, brooding type. Only without the playfulness. More grumpy.
If I remember correctly. And I might not. After a while, all these handsome tattoo artists run together.
She continues swooning over her boyfriend. "I notice other guys, sure. Sometimes women, even. But I never think about them romantically. I'm too in love. You know how it is."
No. Not really.
There isn't a Sabrina Fairchild out there to brighten my cynical spirit (I still say realistic), much less ease me out of my inhibitions.
What's the equivalent there? A man so attentive and vibrant and loving he coaxes me from my very hard shell?
Does anyone like that exist?
Probably not.
Which is why I need Dare's push.
Just a nudge or two. He's good for it. He always is.
That's all it has to be. Normal friendly support. Sure, I keep thinking about a different option for support. A more hands-on, clothing off option. But I can't ask that.
That will ruin our friendship.
This is normal friend stuff. Even if it's about the one topic we almost never discuss?
"And you," she says. "Is there anyone in your life?"
Where is she going with this? "Not right now."
"For any reason?"
Uh, yeah, but not one I'm sharing with someone I barely know.
"It's just… I know it's none of my business, but I… he talks about you a lot. More than people talk about their platonic friends."
"Who?" What is she talking about?
"Dare."
"What about him?" I ask.
"All those years and you're still friends."
Okay… It's nice to reminisce, I guess, but it's really no concern of hers.
"Do you ever think… there might be more?"
Oh. That. When we were kids, everyone wanted to know when Dare and I would finally realize we were in love. Then we got older, started inhabiting different worlds, and no one asked. Especially once it became obvious he was smoking hot, and I was cute, for a bigger girl. "We don't see each other that way."
"Are you sure?"
"Do you know something I don't?" It comes out bitchier than I mean it. But, hey, she is being a little nosy.
"No." She doesn't take any offense. "But I see the way he looks at you." She leaves it there. Smiles. Brings the last batch outside.
And it lingers there all afternoon, through gin tonics and coleslaw and barbecue and a walk to the beach.
It's not just Luna.
All his friends see something that isn't there.
They see a connection between Dare and me.
And there is one, yes, but it's not the one they think. It's not that he wants me in his bed.
It's that he agonizes over what happened in mine.
Between the sunset, my third gin tonic, and half a bar of French chocolate (orange peel and hazelnut), I relax into the evening. Then Dare's friends leave, and I really settle into the space.
My first full day in California.
Even though this is home (I grew up twenty miles away; I spent winter break in this very apartment complex; I'm attending grad school an hour south of here), I don't feel rooted. I'm still in transit. A week and change here. Then back to Europe to make use of my pre-paid rent, to get a break from my family, and, mostly, to show my best friend all these places I love.
The thought of Dare taking in La Sagrada, diving into the Mediterranean, downing four-euro sangria by the glass—
It fills me with joy. I want to share what I love with the person I love. The way my dad showed me Casablanca (and I showed Dare), I want to show my best friend all these amazing, beautiful things he'll love.
There's just that one tiny wrinkle.
I want to get laid while we're there.
Really, it's not a big deal. Back in high school, Dare coached me through a lot. He came over the morning after I punched my v-card to give me a high-five.
Things only got weird after The Incident.
But, hey, there's really no facing this without facing that.
Which is a big deal.
After half an hour on a lounger and a fourth gin tonic, I dive into the pool. It's small, one of those hourglass-shaped, backyard sized pools, but it's perfect all the same. Cool and safe and encompassing.
Dare dives in after me. He swims to me. Right to me.
He gets close, really close, like he knows the gravity of what I'm about to say, like he knows I can only whisper the words.