Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Condiments? Salt? Pepper? Oh, I bet you need something to flip the burgers!”
I’m flitting around the kitchen, grabbing as much as I can with one hand. I’ve got a spatula, ketchup bottle, and salt and pepper shakers tucked precariously in the crook of my right elbow when I go over to him.
“Here you go. I’ll bring out the rest in a second.”
I’m already stepping back when he reaches out and takes my left bicep in his hand.
“Show me what you have.”
“It’s nothing!”
He tightens his grip just a smidge, enough to let me know he’s serious.
“Chloe.”
“Luke!” I laugh. “You’re going to ruin the surprise!”
Oh, look at me, thinking on my feet! I guess all my blood hasn’t rushed to and out of my finger like I assumed.
His tone is not the least bit believing as he asks, “What surprise?”
“Uhhh…” I look around the kitchen. Then my eyes land on the early birthday card Maria mailed to Harper yesterday. I make sure to whisper when I say, “It’s a little birthday surprise for Harper.”
So what if I have to construct an extravagant three-tier birthday cake this afternoon to cover my ass? I’ll do it.
“You have a birthday surprise for Harper tucked behind your back?”
He can barely keep the amusement out of his voice.
Okay, listen, I don’t enjoy lying. Quite frankly, I didn’t think he’d press me this hard. Hello, unhand me already, good sir!
I sound less than convinced as I reply with a slow, unsteady “Yes.”
Then his mouth tips up in a smirk, and like my bones are merely molded out of Play-Doh, he tugs my arm—even as I fight against him—and lifts it up to reveal my mangled, bloody finger.
Now, from this point on, it’s hazy. I think I black out for a second or two because the next thing I know I’m sitting in one of the kitchen chairs and Luke is crouched down in front of me, barking orders to Harper.
“Go get me the first-aid kit from the cabinet inside my bathroom.”
Harper hops to it, dashing through the house in her wet bathing suit.
I blink and try to figure out why my heart is fluttering so fast. It feels like I just took ten shots of espresso and chased them with a couple of energy drinks.
“Am I dying?”
Luke doesn’t laugh.
“OH MY GOD. AM I DYING?”
Now, he laughs.
“Relax, will you? I’ve got you. Just sit tight for a second.”
He’s on the floor in front of me, propped up on one knee like how he would propose to me if that were what was happening right now. His arms keep me secure on the chair and he already has a paper towel wrapped around my finger, applying pressure.
Peyton—oh right, Peyton’s here—steps slowly into the kitchen, giving us a wide berth. Those damn goggles are still suction-cupped to her face, though she’s no longer smiling like when she first arrived. Now, her mouth is gaping in horror.
“Why…why is there so much blood on the floor?”
Her question is delivered so perfectly—shaky voice and all—it’s like she’s been cast in a thriller.
I follow her line of sight, down to the floor, and I see it. The red. So much red. When I was flitting around the kitchen, unsure of what to do earlier…I guess I was also dripping—
That thought ends as my vision tunnels and my head lolls back.
Luke gently pats my cheeks. “Hey, you’re okay. Come on. Sit up.”
At this point, my body says, Actually, we give up trying to handle this well. Let’s just give it all we’ve got. Every hormone? Yeah, go ahead and release ’em. Adrenaline? Max thrusters on that.
There’s no proper coping. I’m sweating, shaking, nauseous.
Harper darts back into the kitchen, rushing with the first-aid kit, and then she SLIPS ON MY—
“Oh god, I’m going to be sick.”
“HARPER, GET ME THE TRASH CAN!” Luke shouts.
No need. It’s too late.
TWENTY
CHLOE
My rating: 0 out of 10, would not recommend looking away from the cutting board while you’re using a very sharp kitchen knife. You would think after half a decade in commercial kitchens, I would be well aware of that. I’ve even given myself a few nicks here or there—it’s a rite of passage in culinary school—but nothing, nothing compared to this.
I don’t remember getting cleaned up before leaving Luke’s house. I don’t really remember the ride from Luke’s house to Bridgehampton Urgent Care. I vaguely recall Luke swinging by to drop off a confused Peyton, and I know Harper was in the back seat, sweetly reassuring me that everything was going to be okay.
“When something bad happens to me, Dad gets me a toy or something to make me feel better. Maybe he can do that for you. Maybe we can buy you something to make you feel better.”
“I don’t want a Barbie, I just want my finger” is the response I gave to that, so as you can see, I’m handling myself very well.