Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
We discussed fundraiser details, including improvements on last year’s already successful event. I’d admit it was pretty boring, but I got the basic idea. You had to get the word out and sell tickets, and there would be a basket-raffle thing, whatever that meant. I wanted to curse Coach for putting me up to this, except I couldn’t complain about seeing Girard in this environment, away from baseball, no matter how much I wanted to. Damn it.
Girard’s sister, Gemma, whom I recognized from last year’s event, bounded up to the table to take our drink orders. I noticed her eyeing me curiously, and I had to wonder if she was recounting the elbowing-Girard-in-the-nose incident.
“What kind of soda?” she asked around the table before motioning to me.
“Depends.” I glanced around her, attempting to see more clearly into the snack section. “Is it from a can or—”
“Ooh, are you a fountain-soda snob?” she asked in an excited tone, and I cracked a smile.
“Heck yeah. It tastes better.”
“Right?” She high-fived me as Girard eyed us with amusement. “Coke or Pepsi?”
“Coke is more refreshing, less sweet.”
“Uh-oh,” Girard said. “Gemma might’ve just found her soul twin.”
She briefly huffed in his direction before beaming at me. “Coming right up.”
As the meeting droned on, I watched as she joined her mom near the cash register. They lined up the cups, filled them with ice and sodas, and then she placed them on a tray and brought them over.
“Thanks,” I said as she handed me the drink, and I relished my first sip because there was indeed something better about the taste. Bubbly and thirst-quenching. As I licked my lips, I could feel Girard watching me, but I couldn’t look at him right then.
Gemma hung around to listen to the meeting, likely because the bowling customers seemed fine for the moment.
Jasmine had her nose buried in her phone most of the time but slipped me the keys to her car when Kellan mentioned the boxes again.
Once we finished and were getting up, Gemma gripped her brother’s arm. “Nickie, you promised me a game of air hockey.”
“I gotta help with some boxes first,” he said, motioning toward the exit.
“It’s okay, I got them, Nickie,” I teased, and he mock-scowled. I wasn’t sure which nickname I liked better for him—Dom or Nickie. But now I could harass him relentlessly if I wanted.
“They need to be stored in the apartment.” He began walking toward the exit. “Let me show you.”
“I like air hockey,” I heard Jasmine tell Gemma. Kellan said he’d play the winner, and off they went toward the area with the pool tables, foosball and air-hockey games, and dartboards.
I followed Girard, and we opened the trunk and noted the four boxes. We each took one, then headed to a separate entrance in the back lot, up some stairs, and into what looked like a large industrial space. It had plenty of windows, exposed brick, and air ducts, which might’ve given it a modern flair, like on one of those design shows but not quite. “This is where you live?”
“It was my brother’s place before he got stationed in Germany.” Girard set his box down in an empty corner, and I followed suit. “I know it’s not much, but it feels like home.”
“I actually think it’s pretty cool.” I glanced across the long, open space. There was a kitchen area with a square wooden table and four worse-for-wear chairs, and beyond that a tall dresser and a queen-size bed. Closer to us was a living room section with a widescreen television, an older-style couch, and two comfy-looking chairs to match. It was better than the setup at our house, with mishmash furniture and crates for bookshelves.
“Thanks, man,” he said in this humble way, and I could tell how nerve-racking my assessment was to him. That alone did something to me, that he would care so much about my opinion. It didn’t make much sense, but none of this between us really did.
“See? I can give compliments,” I teased.
He snickered. “I’m so proud of you. For next week’s lesson, we’ll help you admit you’re a grumpy fucker.”
“Only if you admit you’re a jackass,” I countered, and Girard laughed.
“You just proved my point.”
I was looking out the window at the street below, wondering if it was quiet at night, when he nudged me along.
“Should we go get the other two boxes?”
“Okay,” I said, and followed him back down.
When we returned to stack the boxes, I got one more look at his place. I imagined us getting comfortable on the couch and watching a movie, which…would never happen. But I was so lost in my fantasyland that I inhaled sharply when he brushed past me to hold open the door to the stairwell.
He froze, and then we did that staring thing again like that night at the hotel.