Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
And thankfully, Blue Oyster is just that. The noise level never goes above a dull roar, a game is always on, and the seafood is always fresh. Frankly, that’s why Remy refuses to branch out and go anywhere else.
It’s habit, and it’s evidently the good kind, according to him. I’m pretty sure he’s bullshitting so he won’t have to answer for the rut he’s let his life fall into, but I’m in no position to play counselor tonight.
After Rachel’s little show in my office, it’s a miracle I’ve managed to prevent the swallowing of my own tongue for this many hours. I’m on the edge of a precipice—one that just happens to feel like fucking garbage on both sides. I don’t like the idea of letting all this playful buildup lead to nowhere, but I also hate the idea of breaking the trust of a man who’s been the kind of mentor I was missing my whole life. And ever since Rachel left my office this afternoon after taking our taunting up about a million notches, I’ve been a walking case of frazzled nerves and mental confusion.
A blast of fresh cold air hits me as I open the door—a startingly odd feeling at the end of January in New York. Normally, the heat is on max, hitting you like a wave of hot tub water the moment you lift your foot across the threshold of indoors, but not this place. It’s practically one of those ice resorts, and I usually never take off my coat. But hey, sacrifices have to be made to keep the seafood fresh and a grumpy older brother happy.
The hostess smiles and waves me forward as I approach, knowing I’m there to meet my brother and knowing I’m running late to meet him as usual. She has her best smile in place, one she reserves for me when I come in, and one I normally at least acknowledge.
But I can’t. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m struggling just to put one foot in front of the other without giving myself a flat tire like a bully on the grade-school playground.
“How’s it going, Ty?” the hostess asks with a bright smile as we pass a table of other regulars, attempting to bring the robot version of me to life.
I try to put words together, something to the effect of, “Going well,” and end up choking on my tongue and tripping on the toe of my boot. Two stumbling steps and a set of flailing arms carry me directly into the table behind the male regulars—empty, thank God—but the resting glasses and dishware clink and clonk, and the table rocks up onto the far side of its bear-claw leg.
“Oh my goodness! Are you okay?” she practically shrieks, horrified. And I can relate. I’ve managed to transform into a ninety’s rom-com heroine in the span of half a day. Lord only knows what I’m going to be like tomorrow.
Silently, I wave her off and pull myself up with sheer will so I can stumble over to Remy’s regular table in the back. When he comes into view, his eyes are up and alert, having heard the commotion.
“What the hell’s happening up there?” he asks, trying to get a peek at the moron who can’t keep himself on his own two feet. Little does he know, he has a front-row seat to the clown show. I slide into the leather booth opposite him and unbutton the front of my coat. I’m suddenly feeling a little overheated.
“Nothing,” I dismiss quickly, opening my menu and pretending I don’t get the same damn food every time I come here. “Something with the hostess, I think.” My eyes flick from the menu to him several times, scoping the situation manically. Remy looks to the front another couple times, taking a swig of his beer in between, but finally settles in to perusing the menu himself.
I’m thankful Remy’s dropped his investigation into my fuckup in the front, but I still have to find a way to make it through an entire dinner without falling into any other tables. Thanks to Rachel fucking Rose, I’m on an alert level even Homeland Security isn’t familiar with.
“How’s class going this semester?” His tone is purely conversational, but I’m instantly suspicious. I don’t know how, but Remy always has a way of knowing shit.
“What do you mean?”
His eyebrows draw together, and he puts his menu down on the table. Unlike me, he has reason to read—he actually changes his order every now and then—and I’ve somehow acted weird enough already to interrupt his routine. Truth be told, I haven’t felt like this since I went to see Cleo in Staten Island.
“I mean, how is your job going? You are still teaching, right? You haven’t joined an all-male revue, have you? The fuck?” he rails, his eyebrows making a mountain peak in the middle of his forehead.