Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
My head snaps up. “What the fuck is bubble tea?”
She jumps at the sound of my voice, and I’m equally surprised because usually I have to force words out of my mouth. This time, they just slipped out without any effort. Her eyes twinkle. “Wow, is that really going to be the first thing you say to me?” she asks. I wait for her expression to change to one of disgust, fear, or nosy curiosity about the oddness of my voice, but it doesn’t. Instead, a smile crosses her lips, and now my ability to speak has been whisked away by how incredibly beautiful she is when her demons loosen their grip on her. When was the last time a woman genuinely smiled at me? Years.
“Bubble tea is a creamy, cold, sweet drink that has these little things called tapioca bubbles at the bottom of the cup, and you chew on them. They’re squishy. Some are different, and they pop. It’s one of the best things I’ve had since I…” Her voice trails off uneasily. “Since I got back home.”
Strange shit like bubble tea and lattes with fucked-up words for sizes make me believe hiding away is actually a good choice. What happened to root beer floats and a coffee with extra cream and sugar? And why the hell is she walking to and from town every day? If my memory’s right, that’s how she got kidnapped in the first place.
“Sounds weird,” I reply, but even stranger is how relaxed my throat muscles feel. The words are flowing out naturally, without effort, like they used to before my life went to hell.
“It is,” she agrees. “But it’s such a good weird.” A wistful look settles on her face as she stares off, thinking about her favorite drink. It’s sweet and sad, how something so simple makes her happy, and it almost makes me feel guilty for being drawn to such a bittersweet smile.
I give her ten more minutes, and then I light up a smoke and point to the door.
“What?” She looks back at the door behind her. “You want me to leave?”
I flick off the lights, and she practically runs outside with the dog at her heels, stopping a few feet away to turn back as I lock the door behind us. I didn’t mean to scare her, but at least it got her out.
“Okay.” Her voice is laced with disappointment. “I’ll go. Thank you for letting me see Poppy again.”
I chuckle a little. Before she started dropping by, I was calling him Buddy. I was close. I take a drag on my cigarette and whistle for the dog to follow me into the house. He hesitates halfway between us—looking from her to me, his loyalty torn—then runs back to her.
Little traitor.
She picks him up and carries him to me, her eyes brimming with tears as she places him gently in my arms like a baby, her perfume invading my personal space. She smells of everything soft, feminine, and delicious, but the dark mascara-stained tears tracking down her cheeks tell a far different story. Fuck. The allure of tainted beauty is not a delicacy I can indulge in. No matter how tempting it is.
I used to like to break things and put them back together again, to see how they worked inside. Toys. Engines. Myself. No way am I adding a woman to that list. Especially one that’s already trying to figure out where her bent and twisted pieces are supposed to go.
“Merry Christmas,” she murmurs before she turns away, reminding me that Christmas is just a few days away.
“Happy birthday,” I call after her.
Of course I remembered. It’s my Dad’s birthday, too.
11
Holly
A swarm of people have piled into the tiny ice cream shop. I count four adults and at least ten little kids. They’re excited, running around. Tipping chairs over and shrieking.
The other girl who usually works here with me is out sick today, and the owner doesn’t come by until after four, so I’m here by myself. We thought it would be slow today since it’s two days before Christmas, but we were wrong.
“Can you make the cones faster?” the man on the other side of the counter asks. “Some of the kids are finished with theirs already, and others haven’t even gotten any yet. That’s why they’re screaming.”
I smile weakly, my hand shaking as I pull the handle on the vanilla soft serve machine. My head spins, and my thin shirt sticks to my arms and torso. I hand the man the cone and grab another one. “I’m sorry, did you say vanilla?”
“Chocolate. And I need that one in a dish,” he says impatiently. “You should really be writing this down.”
As I reach for a paper dish, my shirt sleeve catches and knocks the entire teetering stack off the counter. The customer huffs behind me. Overwhelmed with all the noise and rushing, I pick one up and start to fill it with ice cream.