Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
The thought quickly dissolves, preventing any true embarrassment, because I’m dedicating every molecule of mental energy to figuring out who this man is. I know I know him. He’s hot, but not in the shaggy way of any of the recent guys I’ve slept with. (Though the last one played Legolas in a Lord of the Rings–inspired band, and I must admit he took elvish hair care very seriously.) I also don’t think this guy is the landlord, but it’s only now that I realize I have no idea what our landlord actually looks like.
Finally, I give up.
“Hi.” I wave awkwardly. “Can I help you?”
“Anna?” he says, like he’s not entirely sure, and then does a full top-to-bottom sweep of my body, which recalls the lack of pants. When he digs his hand into his luscious head of hair, I forget to be embarrassed again, because it all comes back to me.
“Hey,” I say, pointing. “You were my husband. West, right?”
The expression he makes is like the meme of that one kid who smiles and then immediately bursts into tears. West is staring at me like he’s doomed but must pretend to be happy about it. “Anna. You look… great?”
That question mark in his voice is entirely justified. I put my hand on my hair. A few strands are still loosely captured in the ponytail from last night. “Thanks.” I grin. “I woke up like this.”
West huffs out a laugh and lifts his chin, indicating the apartment behind me. “Mind if I come in?”
Stepping aside, I let him pass, and he pulls up short at what’s on the television screen. Conan is enthusiastically fucking a witch in a cave. We both clear our throats and look up at the ceiling instead.
He cups the back of his neck. “Looks like you have the day off.”
“In fact, I have all the days off.” Seeing his frown, I add, “I got fired yesterday for forgetting to pay for a pack of gum.”
He looks around the room. I won’t deny it could use a little tidying. “Did you truly forget?”
“Sort of? But doesn’t termination seem like overkill?”
West’s frown deepens, and I shuffle to the couch and settle back into my seat. “Did my eighteen-year-old former boss and sexual harasser Derrick send you over to have a conversation with me about this? Because I have a lot to say.”
“No, no, of course not.” He studies me for a beat and then blinks away to the surrounding apartment again. “So, I’ll admit I’m a little confused. Are you not in school anymore?”
“I graduated right around the time you moved out, remember?”
“Right, but I mean,” he begins, tilting his head, “did you not go to medical school?”
I stare at him for a long beat until understanding lands. “Oh, man.” I press my fingers to my lips. “You didn’t finish the book, did you?”
His expression flattens. “What?”
“I switched majors.”
“When?”
“Like, four months after we moved in together?”
West pales. “To what?”
“Fine art.” I grin, pointing at a vibrant dahlia on the wall, its thousands of intricate petals a series of violent, orange spikes. “I paint now. And work odd jobs to pay for this sweet lily pad you’re standing in.”
“I thought painting was just a hobby,” he says, voice tight.
“It was, until I realized I hated biology and loved paint. What’s the big deal?” I stare up at him expectantly but get distracted by his hotness. He looks great. I mean, three years have passed—three? I think three. And he looks like a real man. I realize he was a man then, but this is, like, a manly man. A professional man. A man who does not get high at ten a.m. and eat cereal out of a mixing bowl.
It might be the current state of my brain, but he seems to weave in place a little. “Hey. Are you okay?” I ask.
He passes a hand down his face. “Yeah, I’m just…” He exhales, and I swear he finishes his sentence with a whispered “fucked.”
“Can you tell me why you’re here?” I ask. “I’m high as shit and can’t tell if I’m imagining you.”
West frowns and glances down at his watch. “High?” he asks. “On…?”
“A gummy.”
His expression relaxes. “Oh.” He looks around the apartment and then back to me. “Is that the same sofa?”
“It has the same bones. I don’t think either it or I will be the same after what my roommate and her boyfriend were doing on it last night.”
“Condolences.”
“Thanks.”
“So, listen, I find myself in a strange situation, and I’m wondering if you can help.” He pauses, and the misery seems to overtake his expression again. “Though I seem to have made a much bigger mess for myself.”
It takes a beat for this to sink in. “You need my help?”
“Yes.”
I press an index finger to my breastbone. “Specifically, me?”