Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I’ve done “self care”. The manicures, the yoga classes, the Sephora shopping sprees I can’t afford.
I followed my heart and opened the bakery I’d been dreaming about since I was a pimply pre-teen obsessed with perfecting my grandmother’s blueberry muffin recipe. My family loved those muffins. They still do.
Speaking of family—I work my ass off to make them proud. I’m good to the people I love.
But if I’m doing everything right, why do I feel so drained?
And why am I having such a hard time answering this damn question? It’s like there’s a blank space in my brain where my needs should be. Or maybe they’ve just been crowded out by everyone else’s, like Brooks suggested.
I just like making people happy. Almost as much as I hate being a pain in the ass.
I especially like making Brooks happy. He’s such a good guy, and I’d love to see him smile more. I mean, the fact that he was thinking about me on what is probably a super painful day for him makes me so glad I pushed him to let me go to Kate’s tonight.
Beneath his grumpy exterior, Brooks is sweet. Maybe even a bit of a softie.
I’m tired as hell by the time evening rolls around (skating and bakery puns intended). But I’m also excited to not only see Brooks, but to see him skate. I’ve always pictured him as this big block of granite. Solid, secure. But also unmovable, unyielding. Not at all the kind of guy who’d boogie around a roller rink on a Friday night wearing a glow-in-the-dark necklace.
I smile when I imagine him teasing, I can contain multitudes, for Christ’s sake!
Will he be smiling, though? Or is this typically more of a somber occasion for him?
All I know is I’m determined to make this night suck a little less for Brooks. I don’t know what I need yet, but I know Brooks needs support, and maybe some distraction. Fun can’t hurt, either.
My brother calls as I’m slamming an iced latte on my drive home from the bakery.
“Are you okay?” I ask when I pick up the call.
He chuckles. “I’m fine. Why?”
“It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, making out with someone at a bar in Vegas?”
“That was last weekend. I’m home now.”
“Ah.”
“I was actually calling to see if you were okay. You seemed really stressed at the bakery this morning.”
Parking my car in the teeny-tiny driveway behind my house, I cut the ignition and drop my head against the headrest. “I am stressed. But I can handle it. I appreciate you checking in.”
“Anything I can do to help? I’m always here if you need me. You know that, right?”
“You can show up for Mom’s birthday.”
He sighs. “I’m really sorry I dropped the ball there. I’ve been . . . distracted lately. I appreciate you taking the lead on that.”
“Distracted? Care to elaborate?”
Another sigh. “Well . . .”
“A girl.” I smile. “One you’re not ready to talk about.”
“Maybe.” A pause. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
If you count very vivid fantasies as “seeing”, then I’ve been seeing a lot of your best friend, yes.
“Nope. The well is as dry as ever. Not for lack of trying.”
“Do I need to crack some skulls? I just bought a new set of golf clubs. I could do my best impression of Tiger Woods’s wife on a rampage against her cheating scumbag of a husband.”
I laugh, the heavy feeling in my chest and eyes lifting. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Offer stands. In the meantime, be careful, okay? And give me a shout if you ever have time to get together. I miss you, Greer.”
Despite our age gap, George and I enjoy a lot of the same things. Murder-y podcasts, good food, puzzles. But he works a lot, and then I started working a lot too, and our hang outs became less and less frequent until they stopped happening altogether.
“I miss you too,” I say. “Thanks for checking in.”
“Anytime.”
Another pause. For a split second, I wonder if I should tell him I’m going skating with Brooks tonight. Is it weird if I don’t? I’m not trying to be sketchy. I just don’t want George to get the wrong idea. I also don’t want him to get pissed at Brooks for letting me go with him. It was my idea. One I don’t have the energy to defend right now.
So I thank George again and we hang up. Then I wait for the nerves to set in—if I were going out on a Friday night with any guy but Brooks, I’d be a mess—but all I feel is that excitement, and more than a smidge of satisfaction.
I’m really glad I convinced him to let me skate with him. Even if I am about to make an ass of myself on the rink.