Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
But I’m not actually thinking about it now because of the fact that it’s deeper than it appears on the surface or because, if I let myself, I could easily start spiraling off into fifty other fantasies about what it all represents. I’m simply thinking about it now because I feel like I need a friggin’ neck brace at the moment, owing to the whiplash that I’m suffering as a result of the last three days.
As part and parcel of the overthinking business, I have this tendency to look for patterns. I sometimes think that my various habits (if that’s what you want to call them) aren’t just behavioral tendencies or manifestations of my anxiety or whatever—I mean they are that, I just don’t think they’re only that—but rather an attempt to grab hold of something familiar when things feel like they’re overwhelming.
It kind of boils down to: I can’t control the world, but I can control little things. Like biting my nails, or regulating the number of times I brush my hair on each side, or whatever.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…
I finish brushing the left side. Right side first, left second, seventeen on each because the total has to be an even number.
I’m not looking in the mirror as I do it because I’m still not sure I recognize myself. I feel a little like a turtle who peeks out, sees the world is big and scary and that there are cars bearing down on it, and then pulls its head back into its shell. And even though I feel better than I did yesterday when I was brushing my teeth, I’m not sure I feel great.
I did. I did feel great earlier. Down at the table when Steve was hanging out with me and Brit, giving away books, talking people up, taking pictures with all the women who kept calling him Tank as he rolled his eyes. (Now that the cat’s out of the bag, it seems to just be running free.) Convincing people to take pictures with me even if they only sort of know who I am. Laughing, having a great time.
Even when Raylen Star had to be wheeled out of the signing hall by the paramedics, he kept the place in good spirits. (Side note: I couldn’t quite make out what Leslie was mumbling in Steve’s direction as she was wheeled past, but it very much had an ‘I’ll get you and your little dog too!’ energy. Steve just shrugged it off.)
And I felt… safe. Comfortable. Unusually so. I kept thinking back to meeting Steve when I got here a couple of days ago (a couple of flippin’ days ago) and how sideways and awkward it all seemed. Stuck in a bedbug-ridden, fleabag hotel, feeling totally out of my depth, not knowing anyone and profoundly uncertain about whether I belonged. And while I still kind of feel that last part, the other stuff…
Steve rode in on his mighty stallion, shirt open, chest glistening with dew (aka ‘sweat,’ but I think ‘dew’ sounds nicer), and started saving the day. And he’s remained that guy. Unflappable, in control, and just generally a champion.
And that’s when I realize that maybe a part of the reason he doesn’t want to out himself as SS is because all that would be taken away.
His ability to be seen as just this cool, nice guy who backs up his sister and is a good team player would disappear into a fog of, I suppose, celebrity. It’s just a guess, but I wouldn’t be shocked. It’s possible that in this universe, that’s why he wants the exact opposite of what I do. Because it’s not his dream. And that has to be hard. To be a massive success at a thing that you don’t want to be known for being a success at.
I mean, look, nobody’s gonna cry for someone who gets to go to sleep on a bed of money just because they made that money doing something that wasn’t their first choice. I don’t feel sorry for my parents. But I still know it’s tough on the brain. Because I’ve seen it.
I wish there was something I could do to help him the way he’s helped me. Is there? I dunno.
Ugh, why do I feel so awkward still?
Because, dummy, this isn’t a romance novel. This is real life. And, in real life, people don’t get swept off their feet and immediately go all giddy for a dude just because he gets them a hotel room and says nice things about their book, which results in them saying shit to the dude they don’t normally say, like, “You must work out all day long, giggle giggle,” and letting him choke them a little bit… and then have it turn out that dude is a world-famous romance novelist who also happens to be a real sweetheart who takes care of them when they kind of lose their mind… and, after that, allow themselves to get all seduced by the idea of winding up in bed with him in ten years just because he said something hot that didn’t include the word ‘panties.’