Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
As I walk back to work, I pass a makeup store. I stop, peer inside the window at a tube on the display shelf. Something called face primer, whatever the fuck that is. I take a picture and send her a text.
Nick: This is what you use before you paint a house, right?
Layla: Yes, just use this kind of brush.
She attaches a photo of a makeup brush. But it’s strategically shot, since the makeup brush is resting on her vanity on top of something black and lacy that I want to strip off her. My temperature shoots higher.
Nick: By the way, what are you doing Friday night?
Layla: Wearing this sexy number somewhere :)
Nick: Correct. I’m taking you out Friday night, and after, I want to see the rest of that.
Layla: You’re on my calendar.
When I return to my office, there’s a sticky note on my desk.
I’m sorry for what I said yesterday at the hospital. Thank you for visiting Cynthia.
Sunlight floods my whole body. I take the note and tuck it away in my wallet. I’m not a sentimental guy. I don’t hang onto things. But this? I’ll keep it.
At the end of the day, I stop by his cube.
He’s not here. He must have left. I’m disappointed, but not as much as I was yesterday. There will be time. When he’s ready, I’ll be here.
I take some comfort in the certainty that he knows that.
As I head home, listening to a podcast on cybersecurity, I run through my evening. I’ll go for a swim, do some work, cook some honey mustard chicken since I found a new recipe.
But I throw those plans out the window when I find David waiting in the lobby.
42
GOOD TASTE
Nick
I take the temperature quickly. His hair’s not a wild mess, like it is when he’s stressed. His eyes aren’t icy either.
I hold my breath as we head upstairs to my home, then go inside. He drops his messenger bag by the door, then says, “Sooooo.”
I tuck that sooooo in my pocket as I sweep out an arm toward the kitchen counter. “Want a drink? Water? LaCroix?” That seems as safe a conversation starter as any.
“I’m good,” he says, then beelines for a stool.
I join him. “Sooooo…”
He blows out a breath. “Sorry again about last night. What I said.”
Dismissing it, I shake my head. “It’s behind us.”
“Good,” he says, then drags a hand through his hair. “It just really sucks that you lied to me.”
Damn, he doesn’t hold back, and I admire the hell out of that. “I know it does,” I say, owning it.
“And I know she did too, but I’m pissed at you,” he says, pointing at me. Like I need the extra reminder.
“I get that,” I say as evenly as I can, though inside I’m freaking out over the ominous sound of the word pissed.
“I mean, we spent all this time together, Dad,” he says, full of intensity and hurt.
“We did.” I don’t try to argue with him. There is no argument.
“I was living here for a week. Were you—”
“—No.”
That’s all I’m going to say on that. He must sense it, because he drops that topic with a heavy, “Anyway.” Then, he keeps going. “I just feel like, how could you encourage me with the fundraiser, and with work, and with Cynthia, and then you’re seeing my friend?”
He stares at me, clearly waiting for an answer.
“I messed up. I should have said something. I thought I wouldn’t see her again,” I say, then hold up my hands in surrender. “In retrospect, that was foolish of me to think and to do. But I did it. And now I’m with her. And I’m sorry I lied about it.”
Quizzically, David studies me, like he can find the answer to something in my expression. “You’re not going to say you didn’t think I could handle it? That’s not why you didn’t tell me?”
Seriously? “God, no. Well, I knew you had a lot on your plate with the fundraiser and the new job. But I didn’t think that. I think you’re pretty good at handling most things. This included. I didn’t tell you because I thought—wrongly—that I would stop seeing her.”
“That didn’t happen,” he says.
“No. It didn’t.”
He’s quiet again, eyes darting around the kitchen before he returns his gaze to me. “You really like her?”
That doesn’t even begin to cut it. But I don’t need or want to dive into the nuances of my emotions for Layla. That’s not a conversation we should have. “I do,” I say and leave it at that.
He leans his head back, like he’s absorbing this new detail. “This is weird. You know this is weird, right?”
There’s a hint of a laugh in his tone.
That gives me the okay to chuckle too. “I sure do.”
“So this is real? You and Layla are a thing now?”