Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Back in the kitchen, I inspect his smoothie ingredients with narrowed eyes. I can put them all away so they don’t spoil, or I can finish making his smoothie for him. I’m liable to screw up no matter which scenario I choose. He could get angry with me for making him waste time getting everything out again, or he could be annoyed that I botched his smoothie. I suppose it’s better to try to help him than to do nothing at all. I toss in a handful of spinach on top of the banana and avocado, then I carefully measure out two tablespoons of each type of seed and put them in next. I scoop out a dollop of peanut butter and add that as well before pouring in some almond milk. After a bit of ice tossed on top, I turn on the Vitamix, watching as the concoction turns a vibrant green. I sample a bit, pleasantly surprised. I’m confident he at least won’t hate it.
I clean up after I’m done, listening down the hall to find he’s still on the phone.
I’m not sure if he eats anything else alongside his morning smoothie, so I decide to scramble him some eggs too, and then I make him a fancy latte with the espresso machine I’m now a pro at using. In the cabinets, among the shelves of platters, I find a silver serving tray, and I layer all the food on top, as well as my check, and carry it all down the hall.
It’s quiet now as I turn the corner and see that Walt is sitting behind his desk, focused on his computer. His AirPods sit beside his keyboard, so at least I’m not interrupting his call.
“Knock-knock.”
Walt glances up and stops typing.
I hold out the tray with a tentative smile, but Walt doesn’t immediately invite me into his office, which for some ridiculous reason hurts my feelings. I can feel my cheeks turning red again so I sort of half-pivot on my heels so I can scurry back down the hall.
“I’ll just…I’ll put this back in the kitchen for when you’re hungry.”
I want to melt into nothingness. Truly, there are no words. What was I thinking making him breakfast?! I’m not his friend! I’m a stranger he’s been forced to house, and if I were him, I’d want to have as little interaction with me as possible.
I make it two steps down the hall before he speaks.
“You can just bring it in here.”
Eight
With hands that are shaking more than I’d like them to, I carry Walt’s tray back to his office.
Stop. STOP, I tell them, trying to rein in the unruly appendages.
He’ll see and then know he has some kind of control over my composure. I’d hate to give him the satisfaction.
As I step past the threshold, I find Walt still sitting behind his desk, unbothered by my reentrance. In fact, he doesn’t glance up even as I come to a stop and wait for his instructions.
He just keeps typing on his keyboard.
My hands finally stop shaking as annoyance beats out residual nerves.
“You did want breakfast, right? I didn’t just imagine you saying so?”
“You can put it down there,” he says, still not looking up.
The GALL. Honestly.
I clear my throat in lieu of speaking my mind, then I drop the silver tray—slightly less delicately than I might have before—right on top of the work on his desk. A tiny bit of his latte sloshes over the side of the mug onto the tray.
“I’d like to have a word with you,” I say, standing my ground and lifting my chin with confidence.
His brow quirks as he reaches for his smoothie. After a long sip, he replies, “A word?”
“Yes. I think you owe me a conversation, at the very least.”
He picks up his plate of eggs without giving me an indication as to whether or not I’m allowed to continue. I watch him eat for a moment, disturbed that I feel the need to glance at his bare chest and arms. When he lifts his fork to his mouth, the muscles on his arms gain my full attention.
By the time I regain the wherewithal to look away, he’s caught me.
I clench my teeth in anger.
“I can try to catch you at a better moment,” I say, looking up at the ceiling.
“I work on Saturdays. This is as good a time as any if you want to speak uninterrupted. I’ll be on the phone the rest of the morning.”
Well fine. I’m capable of keeping my tongue from lolling out of the side of my mouth. He’s not that good-looking!
“I have a few items I’d like to discuss,” I say, trying to keep my tone all business so he doesn’t get the wrong idea about why I’m pestering him.
“Go ahead then.”
His cell phone vibrates on his desk with an incoming call, and he makes a point to send it to voicemail. I take that as a good sign.