Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
As East says hello, I see him slinking into himself. He’s never been a fan of being around a lot of people, of talking and letting people in, and I figure he’ll find a way to keep to himself as much as he can at this party. And while I wish I could do the same, I have years of experience playing the game. “You own the florist shop on Main Street, right?” I ask Debra.
She beams in response and proceeds to talk to me about her business. I ask questions, nodding and listening the way everyone would expect of me.
More guests arrive. Tripp’s brother, Bruce, and his wife, Robin. They have two daughters, but I can’t remember their names, and I feel a moment of shame before I remind myself that I can’t know everything about everyone in Birchbark the way my father always told me I should.
Meadow’s friends arrive next. I hear her call one of them Jasmine, but I miss the other girl’s name. Debra is telling me about a bad batch of flowers, when my gaze connects with Morgan’s. On reflex, my body tenses. I’m not proud of the response, but there is so much baggage between us.
“Does that happen often?” I ask Debra smoothly, not showing any of the discomfort I feel.
She answers while Dusty and Morgan say hello to others, but he keeps his gaze on me, and mine lingers on him.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Debra says, which gives Morgan the chance to make his way over.
“You’re here,” he says.
“Am I?” falls out automatically, and I wince. “Sorry.”
“Old habits die hard. At least we’re trying. I’m a lot more forgiving ever since you broke into our dad’s house.” Morgan grins.
Before East went into his program, I sneaked into our dad’s house for some photos and personal items. Dad tried to blame East, had called the cops on him, but when they found out it was me, the charges disappeared, and somehow, it was kept quiet so the rest of Birchbark didn’t find out—something that wouldn’t have happened had it been East.
“So that’s all it took? A little breaking and entering?” I say softly, trying to be normal, to keep the mood light the way Morgan is.
“None of what you’ve done lately has been easy, Rhett. I see that.”
My voice gets caught in my throat. Even if the words could come out, I’m not sure what they would be. Would I tell him that even after everything that’s happened, this really is fucking hard for me?
Ever since Easton’s last arrest, when I finally walked away from Dad, none of us have spoken to him. There was one incident where he gave East a hard time, but other than that, everyone has stood their ground.
But I’m the only one Dad still tries to call, the only one he tries to manipulate, because he knows I’m an easy target.
Because he sees me as weak.
Because I am.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, just as Dusty approaches. That whole situation is still awkward. I never wanted Dusty, but we’d kissed. When Morgan had left for ten years, Dusty and I had become friends, and it took Morgan a while to get used to that.
“I’m going to…go. Over there,” I say, not having another excuse. It’s not like I have a partner to go talk to, not as if anyone here is really my friend.
I make my way over to the table with the cake and appetizers, pretending to be interested in the selection of food. There’s chatter all around me, everyone talking and catching up. This is typically the kind of environment I can thrive in. I’ve worked hard to make myself sociable, to be the kind of man people look up to and want to be around. The kind of man people can count on. Where East hides behind anger and indifference, I hide behind the persona of a man who has all the answers, but it’s just something else that’s been exhausting to keep up with the last few months.
I feel the warmth of a body moving close to mine. The soft scent of freshly cut wood, mixed with what I swear is cinnamon, invades my senses, and I know without looking that it’s Tripp.
“Not sure what you want?” he asks.
“I’m deciding between something sweet like a chocolate-chip cookie or savory like potato chips,” I lie. There’s a good chance I won’t eat anything.
“What’s your favorite kind of chips?”
I frown, not having expected the question, but then I remember what he said about asking me something every time he sees me. Was he serious? I didn’t figure he was, but Tripp doesn’t seem the type to say something he doesn’t mean. “Ruffles,” I reply.
“Boring.”
“What do you mean? They’re perfect. Nice and salty. They go with anything. My favorite is ranch dip.”