Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Nate is a pro. Clearly, he does this a lot. It explains the muscles.
He lugs pre-cut logs of all shapes and sizes out of a small shed. He drops them onto a wide stump, swirls the axe behind his back and up over his head, and then with a slam, he brings the axe down hard, splitting the wood into clean pieces he can stack on a nearby tarp.
I probably shouldn’t be watching him. How would I feel if he were watching me right now? Without my knowledge?
Honestly, the thought is kind of hot.
How pathetic am I?! It’s taken me less than twenty-four hours to realize I’m attracted to Nate. Already, it’s out of my hands. I’m kind of…shocked and, to be honest, feeling a little guilty about it. Where was this feeling with Andrew? Or any of the other men who’ve come in and out of my life over the last decade?!
Crushes don’t come easy for me. They never have. I remember my friends running around recess, taunting the boys they thought were cute. Meanwhile, I was playing soccer, trying to perfect my corner kicks. It didn’t even occur to me that I should lay claim to a boy in my grade like everyone else was doing. When I was slightly older, it made me feel like the odd one out when my friends would prank-call boys at sleepovers. The phone would circle around to me and I’d stare at it like, Now what? Not having a boy’s name and number locked and loaded meant I got pushed into calling someone they thought I liked.
My general disinterest and pessimism surrounding dating was always a topic of conversation with friends in college. The people in my life have psychoanalyzed me to death.
Your standards are too high.
You’re too picky.
You have to be open to someone new and different.
Andrew was a setup orchestrated by Emma and another example of those close to me playing matchmaker. I resisted the blind date at first, but it didn’t take me long to cave. At the time, when I met Andrew, I thought everyone else was right about me. More and more, it felt like I was the broken thing. After all, they all seemed to have no problem falling in love.
Looking back, I’m glad I went on that blind date. I really care about Andrew and I’m not willing to give up on us just yet. He’s a good man and someone I’d be lucky to have by my side. But now, looking at Nate, there’s an inexplicable feeling in my stomach, this ache.
If Nate were a man I bumped into in a coffee shop, a random stranger on the subway, a friend of a friend, I know with certainty I would sit up and take notice. I’d find a way to start a conversation with him. Have you been here before? What’s good? Do you have the time? I’d figure out a subtle way to flirt, to let him know I’m interested. Maybe I’d even be bold enough to slip him my number.
The realization sends a flutter of excitement through me. Real butterflies—the kind I’ve never felt.
Of course, it’s mildly distressing that I’m having these feelings now, about this man, but I’m not going to overanalyze it. It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it! It’s just reassuring to know I’m not cold and dead inside. I too can feel things! I’m half-tempted to get all my old friends on the phone just to tell them, Ha! See?!
Nate stacks a few more freshly cut pieces of firewood onto the tarp, then he looks up in the direction of my window. I flinch and move away, turning and stumbling and landing awkwardly on the daybed. It’s silly and I’m blushing, but who cares! Having a crush feels fun and harmless.
It doesn’t change anything. I’m still hopeful I can figure things out with Andrew. He and I will end up together. Somehow.
I’m up here in the guest room—my room, apparently—because I need to get settled in and unpack my things. I’m staying and I’m relieved to be done with my broken suitcase. Before I fly home, I’ll buy another one. This one is getting hurled into the nearest dumpster.
There’s a tiny closet in the corner of the room filled with cardboard boxes. The top one is open, and I see foreign editions of Nathaniel’s books stacked up inside. I can’t imagine how many he’s sent. I know every time a publisher finishes production on a project, they mail the author a set number of copies of the final book. With how popular Nathaniel is, he likely has hundreds of foreign editions lying around. These are French, and I love the cover with its black and blue nebula surrounded by distant stars. I wish I could read it to see how the translation holds up. I’ve read The Last Exodus and Echo of Hope each five times through, and I just finished my final reread on the plane ride over here. I’ve taken extensive notes on the plot and character arcs, my laptop is loaded with the style sheets from the previous two projects, and I doubt there are many people outside of Nathaniel himself who understand the characters like I do. I didn’t want to arrive in England unprepared. If he’s going to trust me to help him, I have to be on top of things.