Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
But I can’t seem to make myself wait to speak with Elise. It took some cajoling, but I was able to get her phone number off of Gabe. At the risk of pissing her off, I pull up her contact information and tap out a text.
* * *
Me: Hey. It’s Banks.
Elise: Gabe strikes again, huh?
Me: He handed over your number for a meatball sub.
E: That’s fair. I’d hand over state secrets for a meatball sub.
Me: Good to know.
* * *
Some of my players are looking at me curiously and I realize there’s a mile-wide smile stretched across my face. I replace it with a frown, signaling them to pay attention to the match. Apparently I’m resigned to being a shit coach today.
* * *
E: Take a picture of what’s in front of you, Banks. No cheating.
Me: Nope. I have half a brain, so there isn’t a chance in hell I’m sending you a picture of two dozen sweaty rugby players.
E: I had no idea you were so selfish.
Me: With you I am.
E: I noticed.
* * *
I’m bombarded by the memory of her trapped between me and the counter in that tiny room at the Times. Her legs were just beginning to creep up around my hips when sanity returned, but Christ, I really think I’d have banged her into oblivion then and there, if given the green light. When I’m touching her, my surroundings have no meaning. There is only connecting with her. Feeling as much of her as possible as quickly and greedily as I can. Still…
* * *
Me: The plan is to try and not be so selfish. To learn to share. I realize that.
E: I think we’re making up the plan as we go.
Me: Maybe. But you’re part of it, so I’m in.
* * *
A minute passes. And then a picture comes through.
It’s a selfie of Elise.
She’s rolling her eyes, her index finger pointing into her mouth.
* * *
E: Gross.
* * *
My laugh stops everyone mid-scrimmage and I shock them all by ending practice early.
* * *
Gabe
* * *
I drop down onto a bench, take off my hard hat and swipe a sweaty forearm across my forehead. It’s fall and the weather is cool, but I’ve been hauling my ass all over this building site since eight o’clock this morning, hence the perspiration soaking the front of my Local 401 T-shirt. I open the brown bag in front of me and take out half of a meatball sub, leftover from yesterday, plus a can of Coke, cracking it open.
Both lunch items have vanished within two minutes and I’m still left with fifty-eight minutes of my break. Normally I would catch a nap in the back of my truck or something, but I can’t relax.
Tonight is my date with Elise.
I’m definitely going to fuck it up somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I will.
I’m good at construction. I build. I frame, insulate, do masonry, interpret plans from the architect with ease. Building is my one and only skill. What I know about women is slim to none and I was married to one. Actually, I think I know less about women now that I’ve been married—a fact that has never been more troubling as it is right now. When I’ve got this beautiful, badass chick meeting me tonight. She wouldn’t like me calling her a chick and that only makes me smile more. There is just something about a woman who snuggles with a man one second and tells someone to fuck off in her next breath.
Am I already in love?
Damn. I might be.
With a gusty sigh, I lean back against the concrete pillar behind me, phone in hand. As I’ve done several times today, I pull up the picture of Elise’s ID card and zoom in on her picture. I did embarrassing things while staring at this photo last night—and it’s only from the neck up. I’d barely gotten myself warmed up before I finished all over my stomach, the Mets game playing on the screen of my bedroom television. Didn’t even have time to grab a tissue.
I’ve never had trouble lasting in bed. In fact, with my one and only partner, I had a hard time staying focused at all, my mind consistently drifting to other things. Like food. Or building permits. Eventually I would find the rhythm I needed to finish, but I’m fairly positive it used to take me at least twenty minutes. Masturbating to the thought of Elise? Twenty seconds.
It won’t be like that when and if we have sex. In real life.
It won’t. Right?
Shaking off the concern, I add the photo to her contact and the temptation to text her becomes too much. I haven’t sent a personal text to anyone in weeks. Only work ones. The last time I texted anything personal was to my brother, reminding him not to park with his tires on my lawn. He responded with a picture of his middle finger and continued to do it anyway. Maybe it’s just something I have to learn to live with. How many times in my life have I resigned myself to being inconvenienced or overlooked?