Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Snapping out of it, I grab his dirty dishes, spin on my heel, and run them to the kitchen.
As I slip the dishes in the soapy water in the sink, Markie leans over. “Is that guy still bothering you? Do you need me to walk you home?”
“No,” I tell her. He’s not technically bothering me. And he’s not going to attack me in the parking lot. But I’m probably going to be up all night thinking about what he messaged me, and that’s definitely going to be a bother.
“You’re a terrible liar. I can see it all over your pretty little face.” Markie taps my hand. “I’ve got this. Head out the back and I’ll finish locking up.”
“You sure?” I lift a brow.
She chuffs, annoyed at my question, and places her hands on her hips. “How about just saying thank you and getting the hell out of here, huh?”
“Thank youuu.” I make a quick exit out the back, jogging around the perimeter of the parking lot and all the way to my door before Alec has a chance to step outside the restaurant. I chuckle at the likelihood of Markie stalling him with mind-numbing small talk.
Regardless, this is for the best. I can’t risk him thinking we’re friends now.
We never have been.
And we never will be.
12
Alec
The kid perched on my exam table is breaking my heart.
He’s all awkward angles, adult-sized feet, hands to match, and rail-thin legs and arms. I’m having sympathy growing pains just looking at him. His voice cracks as he moans on the examination table, doubled over and clutching at his stomach. Halfway between a kid and a man, he smells like sweat from the playoff basketball game he’d been playing right up until the pain hit him, straight in the gut.
“We’re going to lose,” he groans as his mother watches helplessly, squeezing his hand. “They need me.”
That’s appendicitis for you—which I suspect he has. One minute, you’re on the top of the world, even running down the court, about to make the game-winning shot. The next minute, you’re in a heap, thinking you’re about to die. Same thing happened to me when I was twelve.
Back then, Cooper and Aidan had to carry me from the beach where we’d been scavenging for clams. The pain was so severe, I literally thought I was dying. I couldn’t take a single step without folding over in agony. It was truly the scariest day of my childhood. My parents were gone on a luxurious trip to the Maldives with a few other couples from their country club: the Wakemonts, the von Wittens, and the Townsends. I’d spent two days in the hospital, in severe acute pain, thinking I was going to die and would never see them again. If Mr. Hutton hadn’t rushed me to the ER that first day and Mrs. Hutton hadn’t stayed by my bedside the entire time, I’m not sure how I’d have gotten through that whole ordeal.
When my parents got the news, they didn’t drop everything and jump on the next flight home. They came home exactly when planned, a week later, after the worst of it had blown over and I was on the mend. When I asked them about it, they said they knew I was in good hands and that the Huttons had been updating them daily. To them, that was sufficient enough. They weren’t worried—which surprised me because I thought a parent’s number one job was to worry about their kid.
Until then, I’d naively thought they’d always be there for me. In my young and narrow view of the world, what I saw in movies and television, that’s what parents did. After that experience, I realized that in their extensive list of priorities, I came in a distant second to expensive cocktails on some foreign beach.
“Hey, champ,” I say, trying to get him to lay back on the table so I can perform the exam. I note the team name on his basketball jersey. “The Devils are going to be fine. What position do you play?”
“Center.” He flinches in pain, sucking in a deep breath.
“Ah, nice. All right, you’re important. But what’s most important is that we get you better so you’re kicking butt in the post-season. Okay?”
He sniffles, nods sorely, and wipes a tear from his eye. I can tell he’s trying to be a man, to hold it together despite the pain. Been there, done that.
“Now,” I say, gently easing him back onto the table. “Let me check things out here, okay? I know it hurts. Just bear with me for one second and then we’ll get you something to ease the pain.”
He does as I say. I perform the abdominal examination and it’s just as I suspected—his pain worsens as I move my hands from his navel to his lower right abdomen.