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)
“I’ll more than give it to Trey,” Bridger calls back to me. “I’ll talk him into signing up.”
I stop and turn. “So? You want a thank-you or something?”
“No. Just tell me when and where to meet you tonight.”
The audacity of this guy. I find myself clutching my stack of flyers so tightly, they’re crinkling in half. “You and I are not—”
“You should really let me treat those wounds on your arm and knee so they don’t get infected.”
“I can treat my own f—” I stop myself from cussing. I have no idea why. “… m-my own wounds,” I finish awkwardly.
“Your pitch was great, by the way. Honestly. You did well.”
I stare back at him, furious for some childish reason. I want to be annoyed by the compliment, but in truth, I’m more annoyed at how genuine it sounded—and how it makes me feel to receive it.
“E-Eight o’clock, Spruce Cinema,” I blurt out, stunning myself.
15
BRIDGER
Sitting on a cement stump by the wide, broken sidewalk.
Night breeze playing with my hair.
Exercising every last ounce of patience I got left in me.
He’s not a minute late. Not five minutes late. Nor ten.
I wait here for fifty-four minutes, just shy of an hour, before I finally spot him stumbling his way around the corner. He chose a plaid shirt unbuttoned and flapping open over a loose white tank top, jeans, and those same boots he wore working at the church.
But the closer he gets, I notice his posture seems off, as if he’s lugging a heavy backpack over his shoulders even though nothing is there. His expression seems softer, too, almost timid. I wonder if he struggled long and hard before leaving his place on whether or not to show up at all.
The closer he gets, I realize it doesn’t matter how late he is. Just that he chose to come. He’s forgiven for making me wait.
Then he stops, makes a face at me, and barks, “What?”
Okay, maybe not so easily forgiven. “You’re late.”
“Just a little late, calm down.”
“Almost an hour,” I correct him.
He looks surprised as he pulls out his phone to check, and lets out a sigh. “I had to walk.” He stuffs his phone away, lips twisting as he stares off down the street. “This ain’t exactly next door.”
“You picked the place and time.”
“Thought Juni would give me a ride.”
“I could’ve picked you up.”
“No way.” He eyes me. “I don’t get into cars with strangers.”
I smirk. I’m back to forgiving him again. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Almost all the movies started already.”
He huffs at me. “Did I walk all this way just to get berated by you? Like a child? Are you gonna take me over a knee, too?”
“Do you want me to?” I ask with a pinch of attitude.
His eyes go big as he chokes on his next breath of air.
Either I just seriously surprised him, offended him, or excited him with that question. I kinda love that I can’t decipher between those expressions on his face yet.
I nod at the theater. “This is what you like to do? Catch late-night flicks? Got something in mind?”
He still seems stuck on the spanking joke, unable to respond for a second. Was it a joke? Should I have said it more jokingly? Pete always says I’m terrible with humor. Every joke I attempt comes out too dryly, and people sometimes take me seriously, the humor flying over their heads.
My delivery is always like that. Bone-dry. As serious as rabies.
“Yeah,” Anthony finally says. “Used to work here. Years ago.”
“You scoop popcorn into buckets? Or off the floor?”
“Both. All of it. Doesn’t matter. We goin’ in or not?”
Before I even answer, he’s heading off for the doors. I smirk privately to myself, then follow.
The joke’s on him, apparently. The only movie left that hasn’t started is a 9:20 showing of Carnivore Carnival.
Apparently he hates horror movies.
“Hey, don’t skimp on the butter,” grunts Anthony as we stand at the concession counter. “Who trained you? Sheesh, the stuff is practically free, the margins are big, load ‘er up. Is Vince around? He should’ve trained you how to layer the butter.”
The young woman serving us doesn’t look that pleased to see Anthony. She sets the popcorn on the counter. “Mr. Lemon know you’re here?”
Anthony snorts. “Who cares? He adores me deep down. I was his best concession guy.”
“Until you weren’t.”
It suddenly occurs to me that Anthony can’t stand still, and he has that glassy look in his eyes. Should I ask? No, I shouldn’t.
Actually, I will. “Did you take a couple shots before coming?”
He ignores me, leaning over the counter. “Hey, do we still got that two-for-one deal here?”
“We have a no-for-one deal,” she deadpans. “You get no-thing extra for any one-thing.”
He squints back. “That a joke?”
“Your total is $30.”
Right as Anthony is about to explode at the price of two large popcorns and two sodas, I step in front of him and offer my card. She takes it and rings it up as Anthony looks at me in protest. “You got the tickets already. I was gonna get the—”