Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“I think you’re right. I might have to set my phone on fire.” I bring my hand to Noah’s face, his expression creased with anxiety. “We’re gonna face all of these things together, remember?”
“I know.”
“It’ll all be over with soon, and we can be ourselves again.”
My phone dings with another text message.
I shove it under the pillow and lean back heavily with hands behind my head, as if to smother it. “Soon,” I repeat with a grin.
Noah smiles uncertainly at me, then gently rests his head on my chest and closes his eyes. I bring an arm around him, hugging him close, and the pair of us drift to sleep just like that, not even bothering to turn off the desk lamp. I’ve gotten used to Noah’s odd yet fascinating talent of falling asleep with lights on in the room.
The next few days, I discover I have been given off completely from the gym. I’m told that it’s because there was a shift in the scheduling, but I have a creeping suspicion it’s for my own safety. People are starting to show up in town who have never been here before. The Spur Inn is booked solid for the week before the event, which begs the question if the owner was smart enough to jack up the prices.
“Dude, I didn’t sign up for this shit,” says Anthony as he sucks every last molecule of meat off a barbecue rib, chewing angrily. “I got, like, fuckin’ eleven texts in the middle of the damned night. Don’t these assholes know I gotta sleep?”
“I just silence mine most of the time,” I respond.
“I need it on for work. Never know when a job will call. Fuck.”
We’re out at Gary Strong’s ranch, Nadine’s brother-in-law, for a cowboy-themed photo shoot—to really sell the whole “southern bachelor” thing. It’s inside the big ranch house that we’re being served delicious food courtesy of Nadine’s, a Fairview restaurant that is also, of course, owned by and named after the Strongs.
I shake my head. “You just have to find a way to stay strong. The event is coming up soon, it will be chaos for a night, and then we can return to being boring people no one cares about.”
“Speak for yourself,” he grunts, his mouth full. “I ain’t borin’.”
I glance at Dean across the room. He’s enjoying his meal in the company of Tyrone and Omar, his nephew and nephew’s husband respectively, whose house is nearby and who paid a visit to “see what all of this hullabaloo is about”. If I knew any better, I would say Dean brought them here to act as a buffer between him and Anthony, the both of whom seem determined to remain mortal enemies. I really wish they would just get over it. Don’t we have enough to deal with? Harassing phone calls? Ten to thirty texts a night? Social media accounts blowing up?
“I got a titty pic an hour ago,” says Anthony.
I lift an eyebrow at him. “Huh?”
He frowns. “Wasn’t a good one, though.”
I chuckle. “Nice.”
“What?” Anthony snorts, tickled by my reaction. “That funny to you for some reason? Don’t worry, it didn’t do anything for me. Not a good pic.”
“There’s a such thing as a bad titty pic?”
“I dunno. Is there such a thing as a bad dick pic?” he retorts.
“I’m not getting any dick pics, thankfully.” I sip my sweet tea. “Just texts and calls I’m avidly ignoring. I changed all of my social media accounts to private. My message request inbox has been filling up for weeks. No point in looking at it.”
“That’s funny,” he grunts.
I don’t ask what he means by that. When I peer back over my shoulder the other way, I spot Noah talking to Tamika and some other friend from the newspaper. Though they seem to be deep in conversation, Noah’s eyes flick to mine right away, as if sensing me, and he returns a sweet smile. I’m comforted instantly by the sight, the way his little eyes lighten up, assuring me everything is going to turn out fine.
Despite all of the obstacles and strangeness, Noah and I have maintained an impressive connection with each other. It’s like we tuned into the same frequency on some imaginary radio, locked into each other, understanding our feelings and worries without exchanging so much as a word—even from across rooms.
When we’re back outside after our meal for our second round of exploiting the Southern thirst, I find myself in a one-on-one shoot with Noah and his camera. I lean back against the wooden fence of a horse enclosure, cowboy hat on, tight plaid shirt half unbuttoned to the middle of my chest, dusty jeans tighter than sin, and my skin slick with sweat—which was sprayed on out of a water bottle courtesy of Mindy four minutes ago.