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)
“Angie and I aren’t a thing,” he blurts out, clearly having ignored everything I just said. “She means nothing to me—less than nothing. She’s not who I want. You’re who I want.”
And to think, I wasn’t sure I could feel any more disgusted by him.
“You think that makes it better, Miles? God, it’s somehow a million times worse to hear you speak so cavalierly about a woman you were having sex with in your restaurant.”
He rears back and looks around, aware now that we’re out on the sidewalk in broad daylight, mere feet from Fig & Olive, but he started this conversation, so he’ll listen while I finish it.
“Angie seemed pretty into you, and whether or not I agree with how you two started seeing each other, it’s pretty shitty of you to lead her on.”
He takes a forceful step toward me. “Who the hell cares about Angie?!” he spits, his voice filled with rage.
I realize then I’m talking to a wall. Miles won’t change from this conversation. Continuing down this road is only a waste of my time.
“You,” I respond desolately. “You should care about Angie.”
Then I walk away, for good this time.
And I won’t even lie, it feels really satisfying. End the movie, cut to credits satisfying.
TWENTY-TWO
LUKE
“Dad. Chill.”
“I’m chill.”
“You’re like banging your knee up and down nonstop. It’s annoying me.”
Does my daughter have a point? Yes. Should she mind her business because one day she’ll find herself in my exact shoes and wish she’d been a little more lenient with me? Also yes.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to relax. I make it two minutes (I know because I count the 120 seconds in my head) before I tug the in-flight emergency protocol leaflet out of the seat-back pocket in front of me. I study the diagrams on each page like the pilot is about to come around with pencils and a pop quiz. This isn’t even bragging; it’s just being honest—I think I could draw the flotation raft to scale from memory if I had to.
Harper shoots daggers at me, and I realize I’m doing the leg thing again. See? This is why I should have sprung for a private flight like I did on the way down to Texas. Then, I could pace in the cabin like a crazy person and no air marshal would try to tackle and tase me.
“Do you have to pee? Is that why you can’t sit still?”
Oh, to have the naive mind of a freshly minted seven-year-old.
“No, I’m good.”
A flight attendant walks by, and I lean over Harper to flag her down. Rather than acting annoyed that I’ve clearly caught her en route to do something, she looks absolutely delighted when I indicate that I need help with a wave of my hand.
“Mr. Allen!” Her eyes are practically sparkling. “How can I be of service?”
“Could you tell me how much longer we’ll be in the air?” I point to the screen mounted in the seat in front of me. “My TV seems to be on the fritz.”
“Because you wouldn’t stop messing with it,” Harper whispers under her breath.
The nice flight attendant is good enough at her job to know she should pretend she didn’t hear my daughter say that. “We’re about an hour from touching down on the tarmac. Would you like me to get you another drink?” Her smile is ear to ear, and maybe it’s friendly or maybe it’s flirty. I can’t be bothered to find out at the moment.
“No. I’m all right. Thanks.”
When I first boarded, I ordered a Jack and Coke. It wouldn’t be smart to have another, not only because I’ll be behind the wheel soon but because I’d also be liable to act stupider than I already am.
The flight attendant’s shoulders sag with disappointment. “It’s absolutely my pleasure. If you need anything at all, I won’t be far.”
“She likes you,” Harper hisses while the flight attendant is definitely still in earshot.
“Harper.”
I say her name with my molars clenched and my voice extra low and gravelly. She should cower in fear, but my daughter doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“What? It’s true. I have a fifth cents about these things.”
I massage the sides of my head, feeling an impending headache coming on. “Sixth sense,” I correct.
“Huh?”
I go back to pressing buttons on my TV, trying to get it to wake up.
Harper continues, “But it doesn’t matter if she likes you, because you like Chloe.”
My finger stalls on the black screen—yeah, I for sure broke it—as I turn to face Harper with what I hope is a shocked expression. I’ve never been the best at acting. “What?”
“Yup. I heard you at the doctor’s office when you said you were her boyfriend, remember?”
She says boyfriend in that singsong taunting way I haven’t heard since elementary school.
“That was a lie.” She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “WHICH we shouldn’t do, so don’t even start. We don’t lie, but that was a special circumstance. They weren’t going to let us go back to the exam room with Chloe if I didn’t say that.”