Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Maybe this happens to me more than most others because my dreams are never too high.
Never have been.
No reason for them to be.
Loving what you have and what you’re given and where you are and most importantly, who you’re with is the best shite my family has ever taught me.
And it’s honestly something I wish I could teach the masses to do a bit more.
Or at least better.
I give my short brown hair a scratch, tuck one arm behind my head, and continue to smile like a looney at the scribbled phone number.
How is it even her bloody handwriting is sexy?
The way it slants and curves and spins around on itself, I swear it’s like watching her walk across the room, which is something I shamelessly do often.
Well, I did when she was regularly coming in with her husband.
There wasn’t much else I could do.
I respect marital boundaries even when others don’t.
Ruining a committed relationship is not who I am, nor who I was raised to be. Taking someone from someone else simply sets you up to have that person taken from you. How you acquire things in the various aspects of your life is often quite telling of how you may lose them. Some call it Karma. Some call it fate. In my family, we simply call it the golden rule to not being an arsehole.
Respect the ring is what the Irish side always says.
It’s proof that a vow has been made.
And vows at that level are the utmost sacred ones that two people can make it.
However, Harper no longer has that ring.
That vow is no longer valid because she’s divorced.
And while she was on a date with another man last night, they weren’t together. They were nowhere near an item. Had they been, I would have backburned my tactics, like a real man does. From what I used my Luther skills to detect, they were on a first date, which is why I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about the way we were eye shagging all night. It was HD clear to her as much as it was to me that I should’ve been at the table feeding her bites of her favorite meal while annoyingly sighing at him for being an overly attentive server.
“What is that, primo?” Gabby Díaz, my flat and best mate, inquires on her way towards the kitchen area of our small, shared living space. “Lotto ticket?”
“It definitely feels as though I hit the fucking jackpot,” I happily reply, eyes drifting over to where she’s turning on the coffeemaker.
“Why?”
“I’ve wanted her number from the first time she was ever sat in my section.”
She ruffles her shoulder-length, dark brown hair, stabs the button on the machine, and ruffles it again during her wait for it to roar to life. “Why didn’t you ask for it then?”
“She was married.”
“And now?”
“Not.”
“Dead?”
“Divorced.”
“Is there really a difference?”
“Not to some.”
Gabby nods in approval prior to pounding the button again. “Why’d she write her number on paper? Cell broken? Can’t afford a cell like we can’t afford a new fucking coffeemaker?”
“We can afford a new coffeemaker. You just won’t let me buy one.”
“I don’t need a man to buy me things.” She sasses at the same time she hits the machine harder. “I don’t need a woman to buy me things.” Her movements grow violent. “I can buy myself fucking things. I am capable of taking care of me.”
“Yes, but you said we. And you don’t speak French fluently – just Spanish – so I know this is not one of those language barrier moments we stumble across on occasion.”
Not because I can’t speak Spanish, because I can. And do. Benefit of having a biracial mother that’s dedicated to embracing both halves of herself.
“Okay, I didn’t literally mean we,” my flat mate aggressively grouses. “I meant me.”
“You know I use it, too, just like you do the kettle. I don’t mind splitting the cost of a new one, Gabby.”
“I-” slapping motions interrupt her comeback and precede a grunted, “Coño! Why is this shit fucking broken again!? Why can’t anything in this piece of shit apartment stay fixed!? Why do we live in such a shit box?!”
She’ll never admit this, but she needs me.
And I, on the other hand, will happily admit that I love it.
I love being needed.
I love having a place and purpose in people’s lives.
Even if it’s just a small one like being the person to make their evening out to dine a smooth event.
I’m sure it comes from the fear of getting lost in a large family like mine.
Alright, I’m only sure of that because it’s what I was once told by this uni student who was working on her degree to become a child therapist. Ironically, she had no interest in having her own children…ever. That is what led us away from shagging for a few months to only a couple of days.