Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
According to the good doctor, college is where you go to find out who you are. So far, I’ve learned I’m a man who has a vivid imagination when a sexy piece of ass wears a short plaid skirt to class. There’s a shocker.
ALLISON
“Your flowers are dying,” I say out loud although there’s no one else here. My fingertips brush against the soft petals on a single bloom that’s still alive. “This one will be dead soon too,” I say and pause, letting my hand fall. “This window will be good for you, though,” I add as I water the first plant and then the next in the large bay window. It faces east and there’s plenty of sun.
This was my grandmother’s therapy. Plants need to be talked to, she used to tell me. I thought she was crazy, but I did it anyway.
And when she gave me a violet of my own, I took her advice. Shame the thing’s dying. Maybe I should talk more.
My throat feels dry and itchy when I stand back, no longer busying myself.
“Miss you,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t be so proud of me if you were here, though,” I say. I spent most of my first year out of high school with my grandmother. She needed someone and I did too. She’d have liked this house, I think. I’m happy I was able to rent it. The price is good, but the location is everything. It’s exactly where I need it to be.
For the longest time, Grandmom was the only one I talked to. I’d work at the bakery, take care of Grandmom and then go home to sleep. It kept me busy and somehow my grandmother rubbed off on me. Over time, it became easier to refuse to let anyone in.
Maybe it’s because she’s a hard woman too. Or was. She knew how hard it is to give even a little piece to anyone. Opening up a little inevitably means breaking down.
She was tough and she showed me how to survive being this way.
But now she’s gone and I’m here all alone.
The click of the air conditioner is met with the curtains swaying. They’re bright white with bluebirds scattered across them. This is the only area in the entire house that’s decorated; it’s supposedly the dining room, but the table that came with the sparsely furnished place is strangely small for such a large room. And I don’t have any desire to put in any effort anywhere else. I can’t stand to be here any longer than I need to be.
At that thought, I head to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
The electric kettle is Grandmom’s too. Another reminder.
The plants, the tea ... well, maybe that’s it.
Standing at the laminate countertop, I look around the mostly empty kitchen. I don’t even have cutlery. But that’s okay, I don’t think I’ll be staying here long. “I brought your plants, though,” I say out loud like a fucking lunatic. Does it make it any better if I know I’m unwell? I tell myself it’s for the plants. Talking out loud to my dead grandmother is so the plants can grow. Yeah … okay.
The kettle beeps and the light goes off, so I go about my business. Tea and then research. I pause after pouring the hot water into the porcelain cup, remembering Dean.
He’s definitely a man who leaves an impression. I smile into the tea, drinking it unsweetened and loving the warmth as it flows through my chest. Dean’s also a wanted distraction.
“You’d hate him, Grandmom,” I say with my eyes closed. “Or maybe not,” I say then shrug and remember how she gave me the advice to get over one man by getting under another. It was only a joke to her but I think she was onto something.
With each sip of tea, I think about Dean. His large, strong hands. The way he likes to pretend he’s not wound tightly when it’s obvious he is. The hot tea is a soothing balm, but getting rid of this wound called Dean requires more than a mere hot drink. I should know.
Just as I’m starting to relax, just as I feel a bit sane, my phone rings in the living room. My pace is slow, and all the good feelings are replaced with ice.
There’s only one person who calls me and I don’t want to talk to her. I will, but all she’ll get are the pieces of me that remain. The remnants of who I used to be. She made her choice, and now we both have to deal with it.
I take my time tossing the used tea bag into the trash, where it hits an empty box of hair dye. I absently twist the brunette curl dangling in my face around my finger as I walk to my phone. I don’t want to look like the girl I once was. I don’t want to be her anymore. Dyeing my hair helps.