Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
It’s been awkward the past few days.
“But I’m doing everything I can to get this job done so I can get back to you guys.”
Charity beams, the first sincere smile I’ve seen on her face since we started the call. “Well, at least Aunt Amy’s here to talk about Vanderpump Rules with me.”
“I must say, I’m happy to miss that.”
“Shut up. You love it too.”
“All that screaming and fighting? No thank you.”
She rolls her eyes. “You like talking to me about it, at the very least. I mean, you had more feelings about Scandoval than I did.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Fair. You’ve found a show that pisses me off enough to have thoughts and feelings about it.”
But she’s not wrong. I enjoy keeping up with the same shows as her. It’s an easy thing to talk about, and the drama of other people’s lives helps distract from the bullshit in our own.
The welcome subject change gets her chatting about podcasts and YouTube channels she keeps up with for the latest reality TV gossip—a much lighter conversation I’m happy to have before we end our talk for the night, and it’s maybe fifteen minutes before I figure we both need to get to bed.
“Night, JoJo. I love you.”
“Love you too. Tell Aunt Amy I said good night.”
“I will.”
Getting to talk to her again reignites my confidence in my mission. I have to find a way around my latest obstacle with Ryan. If I’m gonna make this happen, I have to be smarter than I was when we were at lunch. Because the longer this takes me, the longer I’ll be away from my family, which physically hurts, especially while she’s undergoing treatment.
I should be there for her.
No, I am being there for her by doing this.
It’s something I have to remind myself of often.
I’ll fucking figure this out.
Because I have to.
The following day, as I’m working, I’m running through casual ways to regain the progress I’d made with Ryan.
As we finish prepping a bed around the fountain on the east side of the house, Ryan says, “Get the wheelbarrow, and take this potting soil over to Forsyth. He needs more for that new bed. And then swing by that pile we’ve collected by the library and take a few loads back to the woods.”
I glance up at him. He’s not making eye contact—hasn’t made eye contact since my failed attempt at flirting three days ago.
I obey his instructions, rolling the wheelbarrow to Forsyth, who’s working in the front of the house today. I wonder if Ryan is sending me to another part of the house to keep me away from him. Maybe he just thinks I’m some kind of creep.
About fifteen minutes later, while I’m grabbing more dirt from the pile by the library, Ryan approaches me, an urgent expression on his face. He looks like he needs to chat about something, and I’m wondering if he’s about to bring up my flirting fail.
“Jonas, if you could do about three more loads of this, and then get back to that bed and till it out, then you can take your lunch.”
I don’t imagine he said your lunch by mistake. Those first couple of days, he seemed to set up our lunches around the same time, but now he’s made a point to stack them so we don’t run into each other. I’ve also backed off during breakfast and dinner. Forsyth and Morgan don’t stay at Hawthorne Heights like me since they live in town, but they’ll eat breakfast and sometimes stay for dinner if they don’t have other plans. Their presence has helped make things less awkward, and I’ve hoped that sitting farther down the table, giving Ryan some space, will help me win back his trust.
His hands come down on the end of the wheelbarrow, and I notice something in his right hand—a folded sheet of paper. When I look up at him, his gaze is right on me; he’s making eye contact.
His irises are a much richer blue than mine. Darker too. There’s something captivating about the shade that I hadn’t noticed, maybe wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t deprived me of seeing them.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” he says before heading back toward the house.
But he’s left the folded paper in the wheelbarrow.
Is this a pink slip? Simon said I’d need to cover as a workhand while I managed my actual objective, but I hadn’t considered I might get let go before accomplishing it and then I’d have done all this other work for free. Come to think of it, this would be one hell of a way for the Hawthornes to get a week of free labor.
I grab the sheet and unfold it. It reads:
When you go back to dump dirt in the woods, follow the trail on the west side of the house toward the creek. I’ll meet you there.