Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
The kiss ends so suddenly, I let out a whimper as Anthony rolls off of me like a lump of dead meat. “I’m so … so fuckin’ tired of … of …” His eyes are closed, his head lolled back on my shoulder. “… of your pretty face,” he finishes at last.
Then silence.
Piercing. Breathless. Incorrigible silence.
I lie there, stunned, as I stare up at the burned-out fluorescent light, wide-eyed, Anthony half on me breathing quietly, deeply.
Asleep. The fucker fell asleep.
Not a muscle in his body moves, save for his gently rising and falling chest. Like a baby cradled in my arms. A big, sweaty, messy baby. Face tucked into my shoulder. His weight on me.
Of all the things to possibly notice right now, after the words we shared, and that ridiculously aggressive kiss, my attention is wholly captured by a single, surprising observation.
He isn’t snoring. Sleeping like a goddamned rock.
Above us, the dead fluorescent light buzzes, flickers and spits, then comes on.
11
ANTHONY
The sound of birds chirping.
Tweeting cutely, like in a cartoon or some shit.
I open my eyes.
Where the fuck am I …?
I lift my head off the pillow, blinking, confused. The sun burns bright through the tall windows. I’m in the church. On a pew in the back of the chapel. And the pillow under my head isn’t a pillow at all, turns out.
It’s a folded-up denim jacket.
I take it into my hands, even further confused. For some weird reason, I bring it to my face and give it a sniff. Then I find myself recalling Bridger wearing a denim jacket at the restaurant. But is this the same one? Why would it be tucked under my head?
And why do I feel more rested this morning than I have in weeks?
I get up, leave the bright main chapel, cut through the lobby, and stand at the entrance to the annex. The ladder is gone. At the end of the closest table sits all of the tools and loose screws, neatly organized into a small box.
I don’t remember doing that last night.
Or did I?
I tuck the box under an arm, take it to the storage closet, and put it on a shelf—right next to the ladder, which I guess I must’ve put away, too. Did I do work in my sleep? How the hell can I not remember doing any of this? I stop at the church doors before I go and glance back one last time, thinking about Jeremiah and a chat I vaguely remember us having before he left. He stood behind me on the ladder to help keep balance. And then he …
Then he …
“Wait a damned second,” I catch myself blurting ten minutes later over my cup of coffee at the corner café. A flash of falling off the ladder. Bridger’s stunned face. His eyes burning with outrage like my ass meant to fall on him. “That wasn’t Jeremiah!”
“Who wasn’t Jeremiah?” asks the man seated next to me.
I flinch away from him. “None of your business.”
He frowns back. “Then don’t go makin’ it everyone’s business shoutin’ out whatever’s goin’ on in your weird head.”
I take my cup outside and go for a walk, my mind storming with thoughts. Last night feels like a dream, except the longer I’m awake, the more I remember it. That Bridger was somehow there at the church. That he was the one holding the ladder. That the two of us actually spoke civilly. Sorta. And that I fell on top of him.
But what came next?
And all of that still doesn’t explain why I’ve got his jacket.
I debate heading over to Juni’s and checking in with her, but something tells me she barely noticed my absence last night. She never seems worried about me. Or anything at all.
So I end up on my own street instead. My actual home, at the bone-dry, deadest-ass-corner of Spruce where the trees don’t even grow, only the weeds, especially through the cracks in the streets. I walk over the dead wasteland we call a front lawn and let myself in through the front door. Mom and Dad never bother to lock it.
She’s in her favorite chair by the TV, but ignoring whatever’s on, playing a game on her phone instead. Probably Scrabble. “Did he say yes?” she asks. When there’s no answer, she looks up. “Oh, Anthony, ooh … I … I didn’t …” She tries to get up, fails, tries again, fails again, then gives up and stays right where she is. “Oh, what’re you doing home?”
“Did who say yes?” I ask, coming in and stopping by the TV.
“I thought you were your father. He’s on some business thing right now, some meeting-business thing—never mind that, are you okay, sweetheart?”
“Are you?” I cross my arms, inadvertently hugging the jacket to my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fall?”