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)
“But?” she asks cautiously when I don’t continue. “But what?”
“But you heard the old man. Next week is spring break. We can get away from here. Spend a little time. Just be ourselves without thinking about all the complications.”
A little bubble of hope creates a window of brightness in her pretty eyes. “You think?”
I nod fervently. “Absolutely. You won’t have to worry about class, and I don’t want to presume, but maybe you could take some time from the bakery too, and we could just have the week.”
“Away from all of this,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod zealously—perhaps a little overzealously, if I’m completely honest. I want this badly. Way more than I ever could have imagined I would want anything with anyone.
I don’t want Rachel to run unless I’m running too—and a lion is chasing us or some shit.
“I could probably talk Lydia and Lou into the week off. I mean, I don’t want to leave them in the lurch, but if it’s okay with them, I guess I could…”
“Yeah?”
She shrugs then. “You’re right. Being away from here…not thinking about this…it sounds nice.”
A whole week with just Rachel and me and none of the complications? Fuck yes.
“It doesn’t just sound nice,” I argue with a smirk. “If you ask me, it sounds perfect.”
“One week?”
“One week,” I repeat. “Just you and me.”
“And until then, we’ll be good?”
“Perfect angels. Completely on the up-and-up. Like, the most boring set of people you’ve ever met.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” The truth is, I’ll do whatever it takes to get Rachel Rose all to myself for a week. Whatever it takes.
Thursday, February 28th
Ty
One day away from the end of the week might as well feel like a thousand when spring break is on the other side. Kids seem to think they’re the only ones looking forward to a week without school, but I don’t know a single adult who doesn’t want a week off work.
And in this case, a week with Rachel all to myself.
About fifteen minutes before class ends, I’m not surprised when one particular student tries to question the deadline on their current essay assignment. I gird my loins against the unpredictable—God only knows what’s going to come out of this kid’s mouth.
“Prof, can I get an extension on my essay interpretation of Roaming Heights?” Landon, the roughest of all of my pupils this year, asks, waggling his eyebrows as if it’ll somehow convince me.
“It’s Wuthering Heights, bro,” I correct him with an exhausted smile. “And there’s no extension because you’ll have tomorrow and all of next week to write it.”
“Duuuude. I’m gonna be in Panama for spring break!”
“We’re all aware it’s spring break, Landon,” I say with a companionable glance around the room. “But you’ve had this assignment for nearly a week. If you’d been proactive about all the beers and babes in Panama, you would have already gotten it done.”
“Ugh, bro. You’re cockblocking me so hard.” Landon groans, sinking his scraggly head into his hands. The rest of the class laughs at his try at dramatic theater, and I wave my hands downward in a shushing motion to settle them down.
“Raise your hand if you think this paper is the reason Landon’s cock is going to be blocked.”
No one besides Landon raises their hand, and the class erupts into outrageous laughter.
Landon glances around at all his turncoat peers with a playful sneer. “Harsh, dudes. You’re all harsh.”
“All right,” I say, hopping up to take a seat on my desk and crossing an arm over my knee. I look Landon directly in his sleepy, hazy eyes. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can tell me the last name of just one of the families that are of prominence in the book, I’ll give you an extension.”
The whole class shifts in their seats as Landon considers the question. I’m not entirely confident he’ll win this little game, given the fact that he didn’t know the name of the book when we started this conversation, but if anything, I’m a man of honest chances. I won’t call for Landon’s failure before he seals it for himself. Innocent until proven guilty, if you will.
A few students cough behind their hands, trying to pass along the answer, and I hold up an open-palmed hand toward the room. “Ah, ah. No cheating, kids.”
A hush finally falls over the crowd as they all wait for Landon’s moment—will he be the hero or a pariah?
“Time’s up, dude,” I tell him bluntly. “What’s your answer?”
He racks his brain—I can practically see the wheels turning in his sluggish mind through the fog in his eyes—and then finally surges to his feet. “Oh! I got it! Earnhardt!”
The class explodes in groans and shouts, and I have to smile at the pure confidence of his answer. “Sorry, Landon. The only thing the last name Earnhardt is prominent in is NASCAR.”