Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Imogen: Even if that's what I want to try?
Patrick: Is it?
That's kind of hot, actually. Waiting for her. Making her wait.
Imogen: I don't know. I never have.
Patrick: How about next time?
Imogen: Okay. Next time. This time… I could use a distraction after dinner with my parents Sunday. If you don't mind being used.
Patrick: Being used for sex by a gorgeous woman? No, I don't mind.
Imogen: Your place?
Patrick: Eight?
She's direct. I like that.
I really like it.
Imogen: Nine.
Patrick: Do you want to spend the night?
Imogen: As long as we're clear it doesn't mean anything.
Patrick: We're clear. Anything you want between now and Sunday.
Imogen: Anything how?
Patrick: Pictures. Texts. Calls.
Imogen: Sexual ones?
Patrick: Or other ones.
Imogen: No. I'm okay. Actually, could you pick up some stuff for breakfast and chai? I'm no fun before my morning tea. And I want the morning sex to go well.
Patrick: Sure, but I'll need a list. I don't know tea.
Imogen: You drink Bud Light, right? That's what Luna said.
Patrick: How the hell did that come up?
Imogen: She really judged you for it.
Patrick: She's a snob.
Imogen: Probably, but I am too. I'm from Newport Beach.
Patrick: Really? You don't seem like the type.
Imogen: I'll take that as a compliment.
Patrick: Fancy breakfast. Got it.
Imogen: I'll teach you how to make chai.
Patrick: I'll teach you anything you want to know.
Chapter Eight
IMOGEN
Sunday dinners are a family tradition. Even when my parents are at their busiest, even when my sister's softball schedule means she's hundreds of miles away, we connect Sunday night for dinner.
Usually, it's here, in their Newport Beach house. I guess it's still my house too. We moved here when I was in middle school, after my parents' business really took off.
We went from living in a tiny apartment to living in a three-bedroom house on the beach.
It's not huge, but it's big enough (and expensive enough). I have my own room.
I linger there, in my space, before dinner. I sit on my twin bed, soak in the dark pink sheets and comforter, the white desk covered in colorful lyrics, the bare walls. No more band posters or photographs or moody poems.
Only pure, clean white.
That's the way they like things—clean.
I don't want to sit through another awkward dinner. Even if it comes with the comfort of Mom's cooking.
Right on cue, the scent of lemongrass fills my nostrils. But that can't be possible. It's my imagination.
Mmm. Beef, coconut, fish sauce, rice.
Maybe it is my imagination, but my imagination is making me hungry. Why is her food so comforting when her presence isn't? It's this blank wall that screams we can't talk about this.
Worse, Julie doesn't know.
My kid sister has no idea what happened last year and I have to keep things that way.
Awesome.
I try to ignore the scent of lemongrass, but it's too strong. Opening a window doesn't help. The ocean breeze is familiar in its own way.
It's too much, being here. My head is too full. I need to channel my thoughts into words, but my notebook and my laptop are in the car, and I don't have time. I just need a few deep breaths.
There. I find a sense of calm. I meet my sister downstairs; I help Mom set the table.
And I disappear. I stay here, yes. But I don't taste the food (the biggest loss, really). I don't smell the breeze. I don't feel the shifts in the air.
I retreat behind my walls, far from the sharp corners that might hurt me.
It's routine. The same habit I adopted as a kid, when I realized things went more smoothly when I kept my feelings to myself, only stronger. Infinitely more powerful.
I autopilot the conversation with expertise. Wow, is Julie really being scouted by Stanford and Harvard? The winters on the East Coast are harsh. And the bay area is still too cold for her.
It's wonderful I'm devoted to my studies—summer school and a double major—but have I thought about grad schools yet? Am I studying for the GRE? What about letters of recommendation?
Eventually, Julie shifts the conversations to the business, and Mom goes into great detail on a supplier issues. They sent the wrong kind of flour. Can you imagine? And the beans aren't up to snuff! (They run a ridiculously successful bakery and coffee chain).
After Mom finishes, she asks Dad about the movies he's been watching recently—he loves aging American action stars—and he goes off on that.
And, pretty soon, I'm washing dishes while Julie dries, returning to the moment one scrub at a time.
"Are you okay?" She rubs an already dry plate with the blue-and-white checkered towel in her hand.
"Busy," I say.
"You don't have to BS me," she says. "I'm not stupid."
"Are you sure? All that softball might be melting your brain."
She laughs. "In your dreams."
"And it must be hard, being the beautiful one."
She hip-checks me. "You tell me."
"I'm okay," I say.