Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
“It happened a few times, actually. It was bad. It did hurt me, and it made me angry, but I guess the good thing is that they weeded themselves out eventually. No one wants fake friends or fake boyfriends. Most of the time, they only made it a few weeks. And now, I’m much more careful.”
“That’s still horrible.”
“I’d like to find them and offer them a job, alright,” I hiss under my breath. “I’d create a super special position just for them. Scrubbing toilets with their tongues would be too good for them, though, but I can’t think of anything worse off the top of my head.”
A tiny smile tugs at the corners of Zoe’s lips, but it never blooms completely, though, and I can tell she’s making a valiant effort to keep the hurt out of her voice and face. I hope she doesn’t blame me for what happened. I’d like to find those guys and force-feed them the lies they told Zoe. I’m not sure what I’d do to the women since I was mostly raised by my mom, and I do try and treat women with respect and admiration. While the world might think I’m a serial dater, I’m actually the one who gets dumped, or the breakups are mutual, or we both understand there aren’t any strings from the start. I try my very best not to be a pig, as Zoe called me, and I so wish she knew that.
I really do care what she thinks—a lot.
“One milkshake, one soda, and one coffee,” a voice says out of nowhere.
I pull my head out of my butthole and stare at our server as she carefully places our drinks on the table. This isn’t about me. I mean, it is, but it’s also not. This is about Zoe. I shouldn’t be thinking about myself right now or justifying my past to myself when it’s Zoe who needs to know. Or maybe it’s a shithead thing to do, to think about my past like that when we were talking about her.
I suppose I could be overthinking this. But maybe I just really don’t want her to think of me as a trash bag kind of person even though she likely already does think things like that of me. And rightfully so.
“Your food should be up shortly,” our server tells us before she leaves us with our drinks and a conversation none of us want to pick up.
I want to tell Zoe that I’m sorry. That if I could go back, change things, and protect her, I would. I wish I could go back. Because then, I wouldn’t have just let her walk out of my life. I would have contacted her sooner, and I would have made sure I could watch out for her.
But I can’t change the past. I can’t change it, so I sit here feeling guilty, and we lapse into silence because it doesn’t seem right to bring all that shit back up now that the moment has passed.
Mom finally starts talking about clothing, thrifting, and cats, which engages Zoe. I lean back against the booth, just happy to watch and listen to them talk. They fall back into it as naturally as if all those years and some seriously deep conversation hadn’t just preceded it. It makes me kind of jealous and also oddly happy to see them like this, talking like old friends.
I doubt Zoe’s mom is back in her life in any capacity as I know her mom walked out on Zoe and her dad and never had anything to do with either of them after she left, so it makes me inordinately happy when Mom says she wished she lived in Florida because she’d like to keep in touch. Zoe gives Mom her phone number and email, which makes me even happier.
I guess it gives me hope.
Hope for what, I’m not exactly sure. Zoe might have welcomed Mom back into her life, but she sure hasn’t welcomed me. She doesn’t like me, and now I think I know why—the reason she was so adamant about cutting any contact with me and having me gone from her life, which in a way, I kind of destroyed. At least where her relationships were concerned.
When our food comes, I purposely push the thoughts out of my head. Seeing those heaping waffles with all the lush berries and mouth-watering whipped cream makes me wish I ordered the waffles instead of a sandwich. I count on Mom or Zoe having some leftovers for me to finish off, but they both clean their plates.
At the end of lunch, I pick up the tab and leave a generous tip for our server. Mom hugs Zoe outside the restaurant and makes her promise not to be a stranger or hold it against her that I’m her son. Thanks, Mom.