Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I’m tired.
The pain fluctuates between a five and a six. I’ve been at a ten.
By seven thirty, I’m parked across the street from Drummond’s General like a stalker. As soon as eight o’clock rolls around and the store’s lights dim, I meander to the back alley, where there’s a vintage Airstream trailer and an old, rusty red Ford pickup truck.
I knock on the trailer door.
“Come in!”
The door sticks when I press the handle, so I give it a jerk, and just as it opens, Scottie applies lip balm. “Hey. Welcome to my humble abode.” She beams like always.
I close the door behind me to keep the warm air inside. The Airstream is a mix of hickory and cedar with copper-plated hardware. A narrow galley kitchen separates the bedroom from the bathroom. But those details feel like an afterthought once I get a whiff of the mint.
Mint candles?
Mint air freshener?
I’m not sure, but her apartment in Philly always smelled like a candy cane. To this day, I have a weakness for all things peppermint.
“The simplicity with which you live your life is still one of your most endearing qualities,” I say while surveying the cozy space—a minimalist’s dream.
Scottie threads her arms into her white cardigan and flips her bangs away from her eyes. “As I recall, you didn’t use to find my simplicity so endearing. I think you called my taste in things ‘cheap.’” She shoots me a wry grin while sliding her purse over her shoulder and slipping her feet into the same Birkenstock clogs she had on earlier.
“I don’t remember that.” I frown. “But if I said that, I was an asshole, and I’m sorry. The world would be a better place if more people lived—”
“Cheaply?” She lifts an eyebrow—a real eyebrow, not one of those fake stenciled ones that looks good from across the street but gets creepier the closer you get.
“Frugally. Consciously.” I clarify.
“Bravo, Price. Your vocabulary has improved. I hope your taste in food has, too. I haven’t chosen a steakhouse for dinner. Sorry. There’s a new plant-based restaurant a few blocks from here. We can walk.” She locks the door and leads me around to the street.
“It might surprise you, but I love plants. The healthier, the better.”
She laughs, making a quick sidelong glance while we stroll up the quiet street sandwiched between a mix of old homes and small businesses adorned with hanging planters and string lights. “Earlier, when we hugged, I sensed something was different about you, but I never dreamed it was a red meat withdrawal. Do tell. How long have you been without meat?”
“Not long enough.”
Sixty days ago, give or take, my last animal sacrifice consisted of poached salmon with yogurt dill sauce, asparagus on the side, and lemon-herb rice. It paired nicely with the three-hundred-dollar bottle of Chardonnay.
“You didn’t answer me earlier. Are you married? Do you have kids?” She prods.
I feel her gaze on me as I keep mine pointed down the street at the couple approaching us with their little dog in a red harness. “That was the dream.”
“Was?”
“When I graduated from college, I thought I’d get a job and work my way up in an investment firm. Marriage. Kids. A mortgage for a home just out of my price range. A car with enough room to accommodate two-point-five kids and a dog. A real dog, you know? A lab or a German Shepherd. Not a designer dog. Maybe a rescue dog with a missing eye or something that not only gave it the character of a survivor but one that would make it look like all of my donations to the animal shelter weren’t just meaningless contributions. We all know those who want to look generous and caring but refuse anything but a purebred with bloodlines of a Westminster Kennel Club winner.”
Scottie playfully nudges me and chuckles. “So what happened?”
“Despite my efforts to conquer the world and claim the American dream, I instead worked myself to death. Well, nearly to death. So I stopped.”
“What do you mean stopped?”
As we pass them, I politely smile at the couple with the dog. “I stopped working. Stopped chasing.”
“You’re jobless?” She laughs like it’s ridiculous.
“I am.”
She hums for a few seconds, her head bowed and her hands in her pockets. “What do you do all day?”
“I contemplate life, but I’m thinking of finding a hobby. Do you think my hands are too big for knitting?” I hold out my hands in front of me, fingers spread wide. “Curling has always intrigued me. If it’s good enough for the Olympics, surely it’s a challenging hobby.”
“Ha! I’d pay money to see you in a curling club.” She nods to the right.
I open the door to the bustling restaurant, catching an immediate aroma of herbs and something sweet like a fruit pie.
She steps inside. “Table for two?”