Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
“I don’t deserve this.” Her eyes lower, lashes fanning her cheeks, shoulders slumping.
“Hey, none of that. Give me your eyes, butterfly,” I tell her. Since my hands are full, the door is still propped open with her hand, I wait to continue until she’s opened her eyes and lifted her head so she can look at me while I’m talking to her. “We’ll get through this. Right now, we’re going to go to the kitchen, put the rest of the groceries away, eat the fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad I picked up, see what’s on television, then go from there, alright?”
“That will work. I’m going to repay you, and I already know you won’t take my money, so I’ll have to figure something out. Need help?” she asks.
“Nope. You can start on organizing the food. Basically threw it all in the fridge when I came back. My priority was checking on you. I wasn’t too thrilled with the déjà vu scene when I saw you in Mont’s bed, butterfly.” We make our way into the kitchen. She’s trailing behind me. Shit, my chest tightens at seeing the way she was tucked beneath the big brown blanket.
“Nope, not reverting to those days. It was more of a purge than anything. Coming back home was a lot to take in, memories hitting me all at once, realizing how much I missed my home and the town. I hope you realize I’m here to stay.” I plop the paper products on the counter, hip leaning on it as I watch Tulsa move throughout the kitchen, opening the bags, watching as she takes out her number-one vice in the food department: pickles. The girl has always had a love for them—spicy, dill, sweet, loaded with garlic, it doesn’t matter. I know she prefers her favorite pickles from a local farmer, and if I had time, I would have swung by their stand to pick them up. Of course then I’d be questioned to death, they’d know Tulsa was back in town, and her phone would start ringing off the hook.
“You remembered?” Four jars are wrapped in her arm as she carries them to the fridge.
“How could I not? It wasn’t me who gave you that awful nickname.” I’m referring to Montgomery’s name he gave her before I knew both of them. I was a transplant in middle school, Mom being a widow at a young age, my father gone too early because of a war.
“Ugh, don’t even say it. I may love pickles, which came in handy during my college days—talk about instant rehydration—but Pickle Girl is not the name anyone wants to be called behind closed doors or in public.” She opens the refrigerator door, grimacing at the disarray I left it in.
“I imagine you wouldn’t. Sorry, my mind wasn’t on the fridge.” I shrug my shoulders then move in behind her to start taking the rest of the groceries out of the bags. The essentials were all that mattered, along with the beer.
“I’d have redone it anyway.” She puts things where she wants it, and I hand her the rest of the shit that needs to be put away. She hands me a bottle of beer, then another. It seems Tulsa will be joining me in having a drink.
“I know, that’s why I didn’t bother. You ready to eat?” I open the beers and place hers on the counter.
“Food, or I’m going to be drunk after two beers. I really don’t have time to nurse a hangover. I’ve got less than a week before I start my job. Tomorrow, I’m working around the house. If there’s anything you noticed that needs to be taken care of that you haven’t already, that’d be awesome. It’s time I’ve boxed some things up, donate and whatnot.” I grab the plates from the cabinet as she pulls the food out of the fridge; she’s still fiddling with the organization. I didn’t buy too much of food for the pantry, so she’ll eventually have to focus on it, but for now, I open up the package of fried chicken, the mashed potatoes, then start working on plating our food.
“Not a bad idea. The only thing on the plans this year was painting the outside of the house and figuring out the pool situation,” I tell her.
“What’s wrong with the pool?”
“The pool pump needs to be replaced. It’s been a chlorine pool for a while; it’d be cheaper on chemicals and easier to maintain if you transition to a salt pool. The sun just eats at the chlorine and tablets. I didn’t want to do that big of a task until Flay talked to you, but since you’re home, we can get the ball rolling with whatever you decide.” She closes the fridge door and moves close. I pull her in front of me while I finish up our plates. My arms are around her body, both of us pressed together, and while we need to talk, I’d rather it didn’t happen tonight. She has enough on her plate.