Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“You do understand English, don’t you?” he asks again, in a low, dusted-with-sand voice. A mix of a growl and a hum.
This time with a slight rise of his eyebrows and an arrogant, almost a superior look on his face that again, I’ve seen a number of times before.
“I…”
“You what?”
Okay, for the last time… is he really talking to me?
“I’m not sure.” I answer my own question, which he obviously takes to be the answer to his question.
“You’re not sure about what?”
“I’m not sure if…” I suppress the urge to glance back to see if there’s someone else around, and continue, “If you’re real.”
What a stupid thing to say, Violet.
At this, he takes a moment to answer. His eyebrows have come down, but now there’s a frown between them. Not dark and deep like when one of his players fails to circuit around the field within the specified time, but light and somewhat curious.
“Why, you do this a lot?”
“Do what a lot?”
“See things that are not there.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t look convinced. So I try to get my act together.
“This is going horribly wrong.” I lick my dry lips because Jesus Christ, I’m talking to him. “I’m sorry. I, uh, you probably don’t know who I am. I’m Violet. Violet Moore. I, uh, live next door. With my parents and my sister. Her name’s Fiona. You’ve probably seen her around. She’s in college right now but she’s visiting.”
Yikes.
What a moment to ramble.
“Oh, um, and I’m a friend of Brian’s,” I continue with a slight smile. “I go to school with him. In fact, I go to the same school you coach at. Go…” I squint, trying to get our mascot right. “I wanna say wolves. Go wolves?”
I pump a lazy fist up in the air for emphasis.
The truth is that I know nothing about sports and even less about football. Before the Edwardses came into my life, I hadn’t even seen a single game played, either in real life or on TV.
But now, I see them.
Well, mostly I see Mr. Edwards, standing on the sidelines of the field, looking fierce and scary. But still.
“Lions,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to the fist for a second before coming back to me, his arms folded across his chest.
“I’m sorry?”
“Go Lions. Not wolves.”
“Right. Go Lions.” I lick my lips again – why the fuck am I running out of moisture when I’m sweating so much? “I don’t know a lot about football, to be honest.”
Mr. Edwards tips his chin at me. “So, a friend of Brian’s, what are you doing sneaking into my backyard in the middle of the night, stealing my roses?”
Oh, fuck.
I’d completely forgotten about the flowers. Now, I feel them plastered to my rapidly breathing chest, my fingers wrapped around the stems in a death-grip.
Should I lie?
And say what? I am holding the flowers.
Besides, I don’t wanna lie to Mr. Edwards. I lie to everyone now and then but I never wanna lie to him.
I tuck my hair behind my ears with my free hand and explain, “I only took the dying ones. Not the good ones.”
Like that makes it any better. But I honestly don’t know what else to say.
Mr. Edwards throws them a distracted glance like he couldn’t care less about the flowers. “Yeah? Why not the good ones?”
At his question, I lower my eyes to them. I finger the yellowed edges lightly. Some of the petals are so loosened and dry that a puff of air could make them fall apart.
Poor babies.
“Because no one else wants the bad ones,” I say.
“And you do.”
I look up. “Yes. I always want the bad ones.”
Bad things. Bad roses. Bad crushes.
His frown gets even deeper. I almost wonder if he’s doing himself a permanent injury by frowning this much. “Why’s that?”
“Because everyone wants something pretty,” I blurt out, even though I have a feeling the answer won’t matter to him. Nothing about me matters to anyone so why would something change now?
Even so, I keep going. “Something that’s fresh and beautiful. Something that’s perfect. But then, what about the things that are imperfect? Things that might not be as pretty or as conventional. Things that might be weird, outdated or outcast? They’re not in much demand, are they? They’re not wanted. But I do. I want them. So they don’t feel rejected.”
Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever talked this much. Not to a person I’ve never spoken with before. I’m usually the non-talker but something about Mr. Edwards is making me wanna talk.
Something about him has sucked away all my shyness. Or maybe it’s the buzz of piña colada.
Throughout my heartfelt speech, he kept his focus on my face, on my un-pretty, un-beautiful and imperfect face.
But now, his eyes have moved.
They’re hazel, by the way. He’s got hazel-colored, chameleon eyes. They change color. They go from green to brown to green again. I’ve never seen it happen in real life, though. I’ve only seen photos that Brian has showed me.