Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
As I study my reflection, from my mother's striking green eyes to my Maw-Maw’s rose-cheeked, heart-shaped face, to my father's strawberry hair, I think about my aunt and uncle. I feel a crushing wave of remorse for what I know I put them through. Granted, I didn't plan to run away from Atlanta, but I still did. My intentions don't change the sleepless nights I know my aunt endured and probably still does. My uncle and my cousin...surely their lives were changed knowing that someone raised in their house just vanished like I did.
I was selfish. Maybe I've changed—I like to think I have—but it doesn't matter really. My bad deeds are going to follow me forever.
This is my mood when I step out into the hallway and start to look for Evan.
I find him in the kitchen, and my first glimpse of his outfit has me snickering.
He's wearing a pair of Jesus's jeans, which he's cut off at the knee, probably because he’s a good five inches taller than Jesus. There's no fixing the crotch area, though, which is T.I.G.H.T. My eyes run over him, and I know my face is red, because you can see a lot of...well, him. Look up, look up, I tell my pervy self. His shirt is a light blue and white button-up which he has rolled up to the sleeves. It makes his blue eyes glow, and I laugh a little because I'm pretty sure if he moves the wrong way, he'll make the buttons pop.
“I didn’t know you were dressing up.” I grin, and Evan flips me off.
“This is the best I could do.” He grimaces, and I giggle.
“Look at you, Mia Hamm.” He nods at me, and I swing my foot, like I’m kicking a soccer ball.
He snickers, and I flip him off. “Whatever, George Michael.”
Evan winces, and I saunter past him and start searching the cabinets for something to eat. I find a bag of popcorn. It's a brand you don't see so much in the States, and Evan takes it from me, reading the Spanish popping information under his breath.
“You speak good Spanish,” I tell him. “Did you learn it in school?”
He nods. He looks like he might say something else, but then he steps over to the microwave and starts the popping. As I lean against the counter watching him, I feel weird being here. Like Jesus and David never existed and this is our hotel or something. It's...inappropriate.
I've been struggling for a day or so now with the feeling that I should be mourning their deaths, but there's no way I can. Living with Jesus was like living with a performing tiger. I survived okay for a while, but eventually he bit me. Not for any reason other than he's a tiger, and that's what tigers do.
I look down at my fingernails, wondering what would have happened if Jesus had gotten me back. It's hard to say. But I think I can safely guess that I wouldn’t have liked it. I'm lucky Evan came for me.
“What do you want to watch?” I look up at him, leaning against the counter top across from me. The way he's leaning puts particular emphasis on his... Um, yeah. I cast my eyes to his face, which is serious almost to the point of sullen, and that helps me laugh, because he looks ridiculous. He grins, and his grin reminds me of a lazy dog. Just chillin'.
“Stop laughing at me.” He lunges to punch me lightly in the arm, then turns his body so his shoulder bumps into mine. “What do you want to watch?” he asks me.
His handsome face is so close to mine that I can hardly breathe, much less answer.
He bumps me again, and I swallow back my nerves. “What about old Southpark re-runs?” Evan narrows his eyes at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I like Southpark, except the few where they make fun of religious stuff.”
He laughs. “Of course you don’t.”
“Why of course?” I scrunch my eyebrows. “Because you have a hard time believing I’m religious?”
“It's just...” He frowns. “You're not lying to me, are you? You, right now, are the real Meredith?” He shakes his head. “I guess that sounds crazy…”
I think I get it... “You're wondering if I had to be someone else when I worked at a brothel in Vegas, or when I was some drug lord's beard. Or if I’m being someone else now, so you won’t know how messed up I really am.” I press my lips together. “It's an understandable question, but yeah, I'm me. The brothel work was furthest from my norm, but I had a specific role I needed to play for my primary client. It probably wasn't anything like what you'd think.”
He doesn't say anything, and I wonder if it bothers him, that I used to mess around for money. He reads my mind, drumming on the counter as he says, “I just can't picture it.”