Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
“I was just gonna get one of those,” I remark and then feel stupid for saying it instead of asking how she’s been.
She blinks at me in the doorway like she can’t decide what she should do. Suddenly, she holds out her cup to me. I dip my head, capture the straw between my lips and take a drink, eyes meeting hers.
“Just like old times,” I say. That startles her back to awareness.
Daisy looks at the cup in her hand like she can’t understand it. Her shoulders go up, just a fraction, enough I know she tensed up. Her eyes dart to either side of me, looking for an exit.
“How have you been?” I ask, not because I want to talk about that, but because it seems like the obvious thing to say right now. It’s better than, why didn’t you answer my texts, calls, and emails for a year?
“Good. Busy,” she falters. “How about you? I didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“I was over at Gino’s for a cookout. They just had a baby, him and Molly,” I tell her. Gino and Molly used to double date with us back in the day. I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking—that could be us. If things had been different, it could be Daisy and me sitting on the patio talking to aunts and cousins who can’t wait to get a look at our new baby. I let the words hang there, resist the PR impulse to back track in some way.
“That’s great,” she says, half-heartedly.
“How long you back in town?” I ask since she’s not offering information.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I didn’t change my number. If you want to give me a call, I could give you the ten-cent tour of everything that’s changed since you left.”
“That’s nice of you but I’m going to be pretty booked up. I’m here to help my mom.”
“Oh, that’s right. The accident. She doin’ okay?
“Not really or I wouldn’t be here,” she says a little sarcastically. Warmth floods my chest. That’s the Daisy I know, with a mouth on her and no time to suffer fools.
“Easy, tiger,” I say, half a grin stealing onto my face as I say it.
I watch her step forward, weight on the balls of her feet like I taught her so long ago. Girl is ready to square up because I teased her. I don’t laugh because it’ll piss her off, but I barely keep from it.
“You gonna take a swing at me?” I say, hands casually in my pockets.
Her cheeks turn red. “Why would I bother? If nobody taught you any manners since high school, it’s not my job,” she says. Damn, I think. Still a mouthy little savage.
“How many times did your mom wash that mouth out with soap growing up?” I ask slyly.
“I don’t know. How many times have you been shot?” she snaps back. I chuckle.
“Shot or shot at?” I say, lifting a shoulder, “There’s a difference.”
“Not unless you got better at running in a zigzag pattern like they said in PE,” she snorts. “That slow ass never made cross country.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve got moves.”
“New ones? Or the same three?” she says, a little grin on her face because she’s enjoying the shit out of this even though she won’t admit it.
“If you want to find out, you know my number.”
“No, I don’t. Lost my phone a couple years ago. I don’t have it memorized.” She’s lying and she knows I see it.
“Look, I’m just here to get Mom some new coffee. Hers sucks.”
She turns to go back in the store and I trail after her. I have this idea if I take my eyes off her she’s going to vaporize like an illusion.
“You need something?” she says.
I reach over her shoulder—she always hated being short, I think with amusement, and get the can of coffee off the top shelf.
“Italian roast espresso. It’s the best.” I offer it, see defiance flare in her eyes. I’ve missed her so much, I realize, that the strange feeling I have is the loosening of that knot, that pain I still carry.
She shakes her head decisively, chin jutting out a little.
“No thanks. I’ll stick with domestic,” she says and tries to grab a Seattle brand off the shelf by standing on tiptoe and grappling at it with her fingertips.
I pick it up and hand it to her. She barely hides the tiny scowl at being helped. I grab a frozen Coke, offer her a drink. She shakes her head, but she’s walking around with me instead of leaving with her coffee. At the check-out stand, I reach for the can of coffee.
“Allow me,” I say, “A get well for your mom. She was always—”
“Hating you with the fury of the sun?”
“Pretty much, but I hope she gets better anyway.”