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)
Chapter Thirty-Three
IMOGEN
"I have a crazy idea," Patrick says.
"Sex in the ocean?"
He laughs. "Crazier."
"Sex under the Santa Monica Pier? Then masturbation in the Santa Monica jail?"
"Even crazier," he says.
"Trying to bribe the cop who arrests us with sex?"
His laugh is easy. "Not that crazy."
I strain the chai and fix two mugs.
His fingers brush mine as he takes one. "We could listen to one of Deidre's albums, one you'd like."
"Does she have vinyl?"
"An Apple Music playlist."
"Modern," I say.
He motions sorta. "Or we could do Fiona Apple. If you pick the album she'd like the most."
"Criminal is the broadest, but I'm not sure it's what she'd like, based on what you've said."
"It won't put me in the mood," he says.
"No? Thinking about your sister doesn't turn you on?" Late sister, but, for some reason, it feels wrong to mention that.
He wants to remember her, celebrate the person she was.
And I want to do that too. Because she led him, she helped him, she left him.
Because if he understands her, maybe he'll understand me too.
Are my motives pure or evil?
I don't know anymore. I don't care. I want to be here. I want to skip school and lie in bed listening to singer-songwriters and reading and making love.
Maybe there's a better term, something less cheesy, but fucking isn't accurate anymore. We're closer. More intimate.
"We could also get arrested at the pier," he says.
"I'd miss class."
"Damn. If only."
"If only." I laugh. "Okay. How about I fix us oatmeal and you pick an album. We can eat and listen. Talk or not talk."
"Oatmeal?" he asks.
"Oh, you're an oatmeal hater?"
"Is that a deal breaker?"
"It's just kind of obvious," I say. "Like making a joke about pineapples on pizza."
"Californian."
I raise a brow. "And you'd turn down a slice of pineapple pizza?"
"We've established my lack of taste."
"Try it. Once."
"All right, once. If I don't like it, I'll make you eggs next time you're here," he says.
"You cook more than quesadillas?"
He nods. "Scrambled eggs too."
"Anything else?"
"Burgers. Salad. Grilled chicken."
"What do you eat?" I ask.
"When I'm not eating quesadillas and eggs?"
I nod.
"A lot of rotisserie chicken. Takeout from places near Inked Hearts. My parents send me home with leftovers when I see them. Molly too. Beef stew, mostly."
"It keeps well."
"And they make it well. I can't complain."
"Stew is easy," I say. "I could teach you."
"You like stew?"
"Who doesn't?"
"You don't eat anything plain. Even that oatmeal. You'll drown it in cinnamon."
"Well, I do make Japanese Curry, but that is a stew."
"Aha."
"I can do stew," I say. "Plain, boring stew."
Again, he raises a brow.
"Plain, not boring stew."
"I can, actually," he says. "Deidre taught me a few dishes when I moved out. She didn't want me to survive on ramen and Cheetos. But I… I haven't made it in a while. Or Shepard's pie. Or sheet pan chicken. Sheet pan anything."
"We could do it together, if you want."
"Yeah?" His shoulders soften.
"Whenever you're ready."
"You're sweet," he says.
"Maybe I like chunks of beef."
"Obviously." He flexes a bicep. Laughs at himself. "Sorry, that's Dare's bit."
"It works for you too."
"Yeah, but it's lame," he says. "Even for me." He moves to the coffee table and opens his laptop. "Do your best with the oatmeal."
"I always do."
He looks through his sister's song library.
I fix oatmeal on the stove. It isn't my absolute best, but it's solid. Soft and chewy with the extra crunch of walnuts and sweetness of raisins.
A woman's voice fills the room. Then a piano melody.
It's familiar. The artist was popular way back when.
"Christina Perri." He moves to the table. "She played this album to win one of her song-offs with Molly."
"Did you pick the winner?"
"No. They didn't give a fuck what I thought."
"So, what, they fairly judged each other?" I sit next to him.
"So they said." He picks up his spoon. "Thanks, Imogen. Really."
"It's nothing."
"Fixing me breakfast at my place. It's something."
My cheeks flush. "You're welcome."
He studies a scoop of oatmeal with suspicion, shrugs here goes nothing, and brings the spoon to his mouth.
I watch his expression change. Hesitation. Surprise. Satisfaction.
"Not as bad as I expected."
"You like it," I say.
"I like it." He takes another bite. "I don't love it, but I like it."
"That's how it starts."
"Oh?"
"Have you ever noticed? Nobody just likes oatmeal. They make it the butt of every joke or they love it."
"I'm surprised you like it."
"Too plain?"
He nods.
"But that's why I love it. I can add whatever I want. It's a perfect base, like white rice."
"Anything? Even eggs? Or cheese?"
"Savory oatmeal," I say. "Some people are into it."
He looks at his bowl. "No fucking way."
"I prefer sweet, but I've tried it."
"With what?"
"Green onions, eggs, sesame seeds. It works better than you'd think."
He shakes his head disturbing.
"It's like rice or bread. Nobody thinks it's weird we put jelly on toast and eat roast beef sandwiches."
We fall into silence as the song shifts to the next. It has the same sound. Soft, emotional vocals, melodic piano, all this openness and easy vulnerability.