Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“Oh shit, what?” My heart sinks.
“It literally fell into a pile of shit. Fuck a duck.”
“I’ll grab a napkin.” I turn and rush toward the opening and slam my head a second time on a joist. “Ow! Fuck!”
“Babe, are you okay?” His flashlight swings my way.
“I’m fine. Just clumsy. Keep your eye on the ring. I’ll be right back.” I rush up the stairs, grab a napkin and rush back down, nearly falling again, but I manage not to slam my head against anything else. I hand Sidney the napkin and he retrieves my poop covered ring.
We head back up to the cottage.
After a thorough cleaning, we decide its best if we leave the ring to soak in some disinfectant. I have a bruise on my forehead and another significant bump on top of my head.
“That did not go the way I’d planned,” Sidney inspects the bump on my forehead.
“I don’t think either of us expected a spider the size of a bloated testicle to drop from the sky right in the middle of your proposal, or for the ring to land in the only pile of shit under the deck.”
“I feel like that was punishment for killing the spider.”
We both shudder.
“Maybe we should not talk about that. And also have a shower. And maybe some engagement-post-traumatic-event-distraction sex.”
“I think all of those things sound great.”
“And then we should drink that bottle of champagne, but I vote you go outside to get it.”
“I can do that. Shower first, though?”
“Absolutely.”
He links our fingers and tugs me down the hall. “At least we have an exciting story to tell at the wedding, right?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT WAS A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME
Violet
On Friday evening I tutor until nine-thirty. Is it riveting for my social life? Nope. But it’s great for my bank account. One of my fellow tutorees drives me back to Miller’s house when our sessions are over. Miller isn’t home when I get there, but that’s not a surprise. He has hockey practice and then a game tomorrow morning, so I don’t expect to see much of him this weekend.
The house has an alarm and cameras outside and stuff, and it’s in a classy neighborhood, so I feel okay about being in it by myself. I tutor at eight-thirty Saturday morning with a kid who hates math more than I hate the moops, so I get ready for bed and call it a night early.
When I wake up the next morning Miller’s already gone for hockey and I take the bus to the tutoring center.
I’m lulled into a false sense of security by the peacefulness of Friday night, but when I return to the Butterson residence late Saturday evening—I went to Toby’s after tutoring for an impromptu Mathlete’s meeting. We have a competition next week and it’s against the first-place team. Toby and Michael are both freaking out—it’s a completely different story. Music blasts through the outdoor stereo system, along with a girl-shrieking accompaniment.
I let myself into the house and find the living room full of high school couples in various stages of making out. The backyard seems equally full of rowdy teens. I scan the room for my future-stepbrother, but I don’t see his fuzzy aura anywhere. Which is a problem.
I decide to check my temporary bedroom and am disgusted to find a couple boning on the bed I no longer plan to sleep in later.
Nothing of value is in the room, so I leave them to their grunting and groaning and continue my search for Miller. His bedroom door is locked. I knock but get no answer. I scope out the house, but it’s strangers, strangers, and more strangers.
When I finally find Miller, it’s clear he’s been drinking. A lot. He stumbles over to me, doing some weird wave thing with his whole body. It reminds me of the inflatable balloon guy, except he pairs it with gun fingers and the contents of his red plastic cup slosh all over his hands. “Vi! Hey! You’re here! I invited a few friends over. I hope you don’t mind. Don’t tell my dad.”
“You’re friends with the entire population of your high school?” I ask.
He slings one meaty arm around my shoulder. His damp armpit rests on my unfortunately exposed skin. “I’m a social blubberfly,” he slurs.
“Kick ass party, Buck. Who’s your friend?” A dude-bro swagger weaves over and leers at my tank top covered chest.
“This is Vi, she’s gonna be my stepsister. Vi, this is Jeff, I mean Jordy,” Miller squints at his friend. “He’s my good buddy.”
I wave. Then turn back to my drunk future stepbrother. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yeah. Of course. Anyfing for you.” He does a thumbs up dance for his friend. “We’ll be back.”
I duck out from under his arm. Miller’s ability to walk in a straight line is highly compromised, so I take his elbow and lead him to the pool house.