Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
“Can you just …” I take a breath, then finally finish: “Can you just put your shirt back on, please?”
A long silence follows.
I peek an eye open.
Chad is staring at me with a dumbfounded look on his bright-blue-eyed baby face.
He peers down at the crumpled-up shirt hanging from his fist, then back up at me, confused.
“It’s … distracting,” I finally manage to say, annoyed.
Chad gives me a frown, takes a breath, then decides to oblige by putting his shirt back on. I watch him as he struggles slightly to thrust his big arms through the sleeveless arm holes. He leaves it unbuttoned, then returns his gaze to me.
With a spread of his big hands at me, he utters: “This better? Satisfied?”
I cross my arms and don’t respond, my eyes cast down to the floor.
I feel shame, suddenly.
Why do I feel shame? How could I possibly feel bad for yelling at him? He basically ruined my life, didn’t he?
Why is it so hard for me to stay angry around him?
“The shirt doesn’t tickle anymore,” he quietly points out.
I bite my lip and glance away, still silent.
I feel him looking me over pensively. I feel like he’s figuring out which tack to take with me.
When he finally speaks, his voice is strangely soft despite his words. “Listen to me. You and I both know I can’t take back none of that stuff I did. I sure can’t make up for it, either. I ain’t a magician who can take us back to prom somehow, or tell my friends to cool it, or … or not knock over that first domino.” He lets out something between a sigh and an agitated huff. “Fuck, Lance, why do you gotta go and ruin a good thing like dominoes? I’ll never play dominoes again, now.”
I shake my head and look the other way.
I feel a very ill-timed urge to break a smile with his comment.
He sighs. “As crazy as it sounds, Lance … and as fucked up as it might seem to you, considerin’ our past … I want to hang with you this weekend. I want another chance with you.”
Things come so easily for men like Chad.
They ask for a second chance, and with little to no effort, it’s handed right to them.
Because they’re pretty.
Or strong and intimidating.
Or charming.
“Can I get another chance?” he asks, his voice as soft as the threads I clipped from his shirt. “Please, Lance?”
There’s a big fist made of invulnerable, iron fingers wrapped tightly around my heart, and it’s that angry, bitter fist that is so determined to never let Chad or his puffy male friends off the hook for what they did. That fist—no matter how sweet Chad’s voice, no matter how open I stretch my mind, no matter how desperately I try to unlock the doors to my heart—refuses to release its mighty iron-tight fingers.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive Chad.
Even if I want to.
I lift my face to him. “I think I should go back to my hotel.”
For a second, it’s like he didn’t hear me. When the words at last register, a flicker of disappointment passes over his eyes. He looks as if he wants to say something, maybe another attempt to change my mind, or convince me of his innocence, or beg for my forgiveness.
But the struggle soon drops from his face.
He knows the game is lost.
With a simple nod, he mutters, “Alright. Spur Inn?”
“Spur Inn,” I confirm.
A minute later, we’re in his truck, heading back down a long, dark road, and neither of us say a word.
I sit silently in my seat feeling totally unraveled inside, like a giant spill of thread I couldn’t manage to keep on the spool.
Nothing feels right or good about this.
They say you’re supposed to let go of your anger. But then where does that leave someone like Chad, other than completely made unaccountable for his actions?
What does that say about a guy like me?
We arrive in front of the hotel. “Thanks for the beer,” I lamely tell him through the window after stepping out onto the sidewalk. Then, after a breath, I head for the doors.
“Hey, Lance?” he calls out at me.
I stop and turn, lifting an expectant eyebrow.
“I’ll still see you tomorrow at the reunion, right?”
I stare at his pretty blue eyes, even now, still trying to charm me beyond my own wall of stubbornness and hurt.
Something lifts inside me.
Maybe I have more power in this situation than I thought.
“It’s gonna take a lot more than just a few apologies and a beer for me to give you that second chance you want so badly,” I tell him, lifting my chin. “You can go on saying ‘I’m so sorry’ at me ‘til your face is as blue as your eyes. But words are words.”