Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Gah!” Echo’s nostrils flare, and the muscle in her jaw ticks. Her right eye, complete with eyelashes and eyebrow action, twitches. “Alright, we can go. But it’s because it’s been a while since you’ve gone. And it’ll just be the two of us.” Echo motions between her and her elderly neighbor.
“Psshaw,” Mrs. Johnson says. “No way. That’s rude. We have no choice now but to include him.”
“Oh, goodie,” Echo mutters sarcastically.
“I want to hear the whole juicy story, and I don’t think you’ll tell it,” Mrs. Johnson says before she winks at me. “So he’s coming along because I don’t think I’d get it out of you. You didn’t even bother to tell me you were married.”
“No. That was something I wanted to keep private. The fewer people who knew—as in no one—the better. It was a mistake.”
Mrs. Johnson steps forward and elbows me in the ribs. “Still a good story. What say you? Are you going to tell it or not?”
“Um…” I start just as Echo steps up and elbows me on the other side. Much harder. “I’m not sure, but I’d really like to take you both out for sushi, and I’m famished, so I think we should go. Sushi’s worth it just for the sake of sushi, isn’t it?”
I have two sets of eyes looking up at me, but it’s Mrs. Johnson who nods. “It’s certainly not tacos or a homemade liver tart, but it’ll do.”
“Yipes!” I’m not one to judge, but that just sounds wrong, though maybe it’s not so bad. But tart? Like a tart that’s sweet? Something like a lemon tart but with liver? Shudder. Some things just shouldn’t be imagined. “What’s a homemade liver tart?”
The lovely white head of the softest-looking curls throws itself back, and Mrs. Johnson lets out a cackling laugh that I already absolutely adore. I think if she was offering liver tart, I just might try some because she’s the sweetest, most adorable old lady I’ve ever met. “I’ll explain it along the way.”
CHAPTER 12
Echo
Sushi is excellent, even though I’d rather not be here at all. Or maybe I’m not being entirely honest, even with myself. I know I shouldn’t rather be here at all, but there is a part of me that is excited about this for more than the delicious fish, ginger, and wasabi. The second I answered my door and found Orion out there in the hall, looking like it was no biggie to track me down, fly all the way to Seattle, locate me, and somehow get through the front door of the building, my heart started slamming, and it hasn’t calmed down one bit.
It’s made it rather hard to eat sushi and pretend I’m all good over here on my end.
Thank goodness for Mrs. Johnson, her tales about liver tarts—they’re as shudder-worthy as they sound—and her straight-up questions about why I’m married and never said anything. It wasn’t as painful relating the facts to her as I thought it would be. I was afraid dinner would drag on and on, but it went by fast. I thought I’d be able to sort myself out and get my wayward emotions under control, but I’m not under control. Not one bit.
I’ve known what the sensation in my gut is since I got on the plane and headed back to Seattle from San Diego. I know that emptiness is more than loneliness. It’s me telling the unwilling-to-listen parts of myself that choosing the safe, boring life I’ve made for myself was the wrong choice when I could be doing a thousand times more life somewhere else.
Orion clears his throat, then thumps his chest, and I realize he’s just inhaled too much wasabi. His eyes are watering, and his face is pink, which, combined with the man bun he’s rocking again, makes him look totally adorable.
“That there was a spicy one,” he gasps as he reaches for his water glass.
Mrs. Johnson loads up a piece of sushi with enough wasabi to make a horse choke and pops it into her mouth, chewing heartily. “Love the spicy,” she says after she swallows, all without blinking.
“You have an iron stomach,” Orion compliments her as he gives her two thumbs up. “You’re hardcore, Mrs. Johnson. I like it.”
Gah. I’m sitting sandwiched between them at this round booth that curls around a round table, and I don’t want to look at Orion because I’m afraid he’ll know that I think it’s super charming that he’s great with old ladies. I also don’t want to look at Mrs. Johnson because I don’t want her to know it makes me want to tear up that she’s included in our date that most certainly cannot be called a date.
Orion drove us to the sushi place in his rental car. Later, when we get back to the apartment, I’m going to see Mrs. Johnson back to her apartment, then I’m going to invite Orion over to mine, print out the copy of the divorce papers my lawyer sent me, and get him to sign them again. This time, he’s going to spell his name properly, and then he can go back to San Diego.