Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
The room is still for a long second. Then Cricket blows out a quick breath.
“You know what, let’s do it. Make me a man-eater like you, Della—with all due respect,” Cricket says.
Scottie and I laugh.
We file out the door, Scottie locking up behind us. As we make our way down the sidewalk, my mind begins to wander.
And it wanders to my next-door neighbor.
If things got serious between us, would he fight for me? Would he go to the lengths Cricket is going to keep the passion between us?
I smile to myself.
From what I know, I think he might.
And I think I own a trench coat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JAY
This is officially your longest relationship, right?” Lark asks, his voice filling the cab of my truck through the speakers. “I’m going off Della’s terminology here, so God help me.”
I chuckle, pausing at an intersection to let a jogger pass safely.
The evening is perfect, with a clear sky and gentle breeze. It made work today so much easier than dealing with the cloudy, off-and-on rain showers of the last couple of days. The sunroom at the farmhouse is starting to take shape. As long as the owner doesn’t add on a bunch of work, it’ll be a great project.
“Yeah,” I say, turning right after the jogger has cleared the road. “This is the longest I’ve spent with a woman in quite a while.”
“And you have no thoughts about getting the hell out of there?”
The question hangs in the air, pregnant with insinuations.
A week or two is usually the maximum amount of time I spend with a woman. That’s how long it takes for the superficial layer of our interaction to cease. Beyond that framework comes an actual relationship with actual conversations, digging through childhood stories, and the confluence of our lives that makes me uneasy.
I don’t go into situations with a countdown flashing over a woman’s head. My extraction from our interactions is organic—a knee-jerk reaction that’s rooted in my need to remain unattached. Being single has served me well. Relationships have not.
The engine roars as I turn onto Bittersweet Court.
“I’m taking that as a no,” Lark says.
I blow out a breath, wrestling with how to summarize and phrase my thoughts.
“Lark, it’s . . .” Different with Gabrielle. It doesn’t feel like a relationship. I’ve slept like a baby all week and not paced the floor. “I can’t explain it.”
He hums.
“Maybe it’s because we were sort of friends before things between us changed,” I say. “Or, you know, her kids aren’t babies. They’re older. They had a dad and I’m not filling that role. There’s no pressure. I’m an ancillary part of their lives.”
I’m an ancillary part of their lives by design . . . and I hate it.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be upset about not being a part of a woman’s life with her children. It would be so much easier if I did loathe Carter needing to borrow my pumper and found Dylan’s jerk-face attitude annoying. Why do I have to enjoy helping Gabrielle around her house, and why can I see myself sitting at their table for dinner so easily?
“I just want to point out that you’re saying one thing but telling me the opposite,” Lark says.
Scottie waves from her flower bed. I nod her way in return.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I say.
“Yeah, it does. You’re saying that you’re comfortable with Gabrielle because you don’t really matter in their lives. But the tone of your voice tells me that you aren’t comfortable being an outsider.”
Sometimes, I hate him. “I gotta go. I’m almost home.”
“Okay. There’s a car show this weekend in Logan if you wanna go. I think they opened the track again, so they’ll be racing, I bet.”
“I’ll let you know,” I say, slowing as I pass Gabrielle’s house. “I’m pulling in my driveway. Gotta go.”
“Later.”
“Bye.”
Gabrielle’s car is in the driveway, and lights are on inside the house. The sun is on the horizon, giving off enough light for Carter to still be bouncing his ball on the sidewalk or back deck. I don’t see him.
I park outside and make my way inside as quickly as possible.
Coming home used to feel like walking into a trap. The day was over. All natural distractions were elsewhere, and the silence was deafening. Home was both my refuge and my prison. But lately, it’s held more . . . hope.
I toss my keys on the table by the door and slip off my boots and socks.
Instead of lamenting the past as I make myself a glass of tea, my brain skips to the future. It’s a relief to have a reason to look forward. But it’s also a little nerve-racking too.
How will Dylan and Carter take it when they learn their mom is seeing me? Will they welcome me in? Or will they feel like I’m intruding?