Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I believe she can throw a ball, but I’m incapable of tossing one gently—they’re like rocket missiles, comin’ in hot. I refuse to take the chance that I’ll pelt her too hard.
“You can be mad at me all you want. I’m not takin’ any chances.”
Her response is to freeze me out, silently brooding beside the hammock, killing whatever chill vibe I had before she came outside to pester me.
Readjusting my weight, I try to move my body into a different position, the creaking from the wooden deck railings shifting.
I have the hammock diagonally in the far corner of the back porch, out of the way, dangling a respectable foot off the ground. Shielded by the sun from the garage on one side of me and the house on the other, it’s the perfect location if I can’t be beneath the old oak trees.
I shift again.
Creak.
The wood groans.
“Would you stop moving? You’re going to go crashing to the ground,” Posey tells me, biting down on her bottom lip. “The deck rail just moved.”
“It’s fine,” I say with the utmost authority. “I tested it.”
“You tested it,” she deadpans. “And how exactly did you do that?”
“Put all my weight on it.”
She laughs at me. “Oh—you put all your weight on it. By weight, do you mean you leaned on it with your hands and decided it would hold you?”
Yes. “No.”
“Liar.”
“Why are you still standin’ there blocking the sun? I’m trying to read.”
Her answer is a soft snort. Posey wavers a few seconds before turning her back on me and walking back into the house with a little wave.
“Enjoy your sex novel.”
“It’s not a sex novel!” I shout out, shifting again, unable to get comfortable now that I’ve been soundly interrupted. “It’s a history novel!”
Sex novel?
Who even calls it that?
Pfft.
Ridiculous.
I thumb through the book, trying to find my page, irritated that I didn’t dog-ear to my spot when she rudely interrupted, distracted by her needling, attempting to get re-relaxed.
Creak.
Groan.
Before I can open the book back to chapter one, my ass is planted firmly on the ground, head hitting the hard wooden floor, banister rail falling, the whole kit and caboodle crumpling around me.
Shit.
I stare up at the open sky from my back on the ground, birds chirping around me, treetops framing my view.
Wood collapsing on my shoulders.
The back door flies open just as fast as she’d gone through it four minutes earlier.
“Goddammit, Duke!” Her arms are up in the air, and she’s shouting, flailing about this, yammering about that, “Look! Look what you’ve gone and done. I just told you this was going to happen,” blah blah blah.
She was right. So what?!
“Ugh, I told you not to move around so much!” She’s a master of the obvious, re-explaining what she already explained as I lie here on my ass.
Pluck the wooden rail off my body, trying to sit up.
“Know what I don’t need right now? You telling me you were right.”
Because I’m lying beneath a pile of rubble and her rightness.
“I didn’t technically say I was right. I’m just saying I told you so.”
“Is there a difference?” I stand, dusting off my ass and knees with the palms of my hands as if I were just in a wood shop surrounded by sawdust.
“Of course there’s a difference.”
“Okay smart-ass, what’s the difference?”
“Pfft. Easy. I’m gloating when I say I told you so—if I had said ‘I was right,’ that would just be stating a fact.”
Is she trying to confuse me on purpose because I’m not sure if that explanation makes sense or not, if I’m dumb, or if she’s an evil genius.
Hard to say.
She surveys the damage like a drill sergeant inspecting her new recruits, hands on hips, nose in the air.
“What will Molly say when she finds out you ruined her porch?”
As if Molly is going to be a problem. As if Molly were going to chew my ass out for being too heavy.
“Relax.” I put my hand in the air to call a truce. “I’ll pay for the repairs.”
“Oh, I see.” She fumes. “You think you can throw money at everything, and all the problems go away?”
Whoa.
Where did that sentiment come from?
“I didn’t say that. All I said was I’d pay for it.” I blow out a puff of air. “If you want me to fix it myself with my two bare hands, I’ll fix it myself with my two bare hands. Just need some new wood. And stain. Or paint?” I scratch the back of my neck. “And some new nails.”
Not the rusty ones in the shed.
When I begin listing off all the supplies I need, she’s annoyed all over again, going on about self-awareness, being stubborn as a mule, something about ‘counting down the days until I get the house back to myself’ and wanting to wring my neck before disappearing into the kitchen, back door banging behind her.