Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Alright. I’ll be on my way then, got shit to do.”
“You’re an asshole,” she spats, miffed. The tote on her shoulder appears to be weighing her down, and if she was being more polite, I’d offer a ride to wherever she was headed. ’Cause I’m a gentleman and that’s what we do.
I shrug.
I’ve known the girl all of ten minutes and in that time, she has:
Insinuated that she was down for a head bobber, in broad daylight, in the school parking.
Insinuated she may or may not have a boyfriend but would cheat if I’d let her.
Called me an asshole when I told her I didn’t have time to have my pole waxed.
Chicks are so weird. Whoever her boyfriend is or isn’t, he’s one unlucky bastard and more than welcome to her.
Hoping in my truck, buckling in and starting the engine, I barely glance in the rearview mirror.
two
daisy
“HOROSCOPE: We all know love isn’t always fun and games, but Venus will move into airy Aquarius and your house of pleasure on the 2nd of the month—the next several weeks should be filled with enough sex and laughter to keep your toes curled…”
Ugh.
As if.
I set down my cell phone, rolling my eyes at my love horoscope. “The next several weeks will be filled with sex and laughter?” I snort. “Highly unlikely.”
I wasn’t in a relationship, and there wasn’t anyone on the horizon for me, though I was in the process of trying.
Putting myself out there, if you will. On the market.
Single and ready to mingle.
News flash: It’s not going great.
But practice makes perfect, and I’m not giving up, which is why I agreed to let my teammate Stella set me up on this date. She’s convinced this guy in her geometry class would be a good fit; funny, smart, and a bit of a nerd. She says he’s exactly my type.
So here I sit, waiting, watching the time because he’s currently five minutes late.
Eight.
Thirteen.
I sigh, trying not to glance around the coffee shop and look as if I’m waiting for someone, trying not to look like I’ve been stood up.
I text Stella, so she knows her first attempt at playing matchmaker has seemingly failed.
He’s late…
At fifteen minutes I stand and cross to the counter; order myself tea in a mug and a croissant. I still have a class this afternoon and hate being hungry.
Boys suck.
three
drake
I don’t call it the Walk of Shame. I call it a Victory Lap.
That’s my brother’s date?
Yikes—no offense.
Eating a french fry from the basket I ordered while waiting for a chair at the bar to open up, I pluck another from the basket and chomp on it.
Damn, it’s hot.
Unlike Drew’s date, but whatever.
I stare.
I mean, obviously I’m staring, this is my damn brother, and I’m fascinated. Watching him in action is one part automobile accident, one part “things I would do better if this was me.”
Seems he’s either laughing too loud or not laughing at all. Both are bad and cringey to watch as the lack of action unfolds, the paint drying on the bar wall is far better entertainment than my brother’s online date.
Wait. Did he meet her online?
Or is this the outcome of one of his passive, public “want to get a drink or something, no pressure” propositions. Drew is a great dude, and any girl would be lucky to have him, but his approach is way too friendly and not enough “I’m into you.” Half the time, the chick thinks he wants to be friends from the jump and half of them wind up dating someone else, all the while still texting him to ask for dating advice.
Dude is helpless.
Which is why—as his freaking TWIN—I’ve made it my business to observe him. Later, when we get home, I’ll tell him all the things he’s done wrong. A critique, if you will—kind of like our coaching staff does after a game, playing the game tapes back so we know what we’ve done wrong.
A brother is a brother, but a twin is better, and he needs all the help he can get.
I watch.
I study his body language and study hers.
She seems aloof, fidgeting with her hair and her drink on the table, wiping the sweat off the glass with a paper napkin, then picking the napkin apart, making a mess with the small bits of white on the tabletop.
Interesting.
I wonder what they’re saying.
If I know Drew—and I think I know him better than anyone—he’s talking about some show he’s watched lately or trying to engage her in a conversation about food. He doesn’t cook, but he likes to eat mostly anything that’s set in front of him.
Burgers and shit.
I take a fry and chew it slowly, finally able to set my basket on the counter and plop down on the stool so I’m less conspicuous. It wouldn’t be cool for the chick to look over and see a mirror image of her date standing there staring at them. She might get confused.