Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“Partners, huh?”
“What? No, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant; don’t hurt yourself.”
“So, we’re having Thanksgiving. Me and Rex.”
“That’s great, sweet cheeks. I’ll be eating The Burrito with my window open, so if I choke while I’m alone then the smell of my rotting corpse will waft out the window and I’ll be found more quickly,” she says dramatically.
“I think having the window open in November would make it so your corpse didn’t really smell that much, actually. Seriously, though, you’re not going to your parents’ at all?”
“Psh. I might stop by,” she says. “Of course, it’s not much use trying to go to dinner at the house of someone who sucks up all the oxygen in the room. Makes it kinda hard to eat, ya know?”
Ginger’s mother is the kind of nervous, hovering woman who counts how many glasses of wine Ginger’s had and tells her about all the neighbors’ children’s accomplishments but never acknowledges Ginger’s. It doesn’t help that Ginger’s older sister is certifiably off her nut and always needs to be the center of attention, or that her parents refuse to say her older brother’s name and pretend that they never had a son.
“Christ,” I say. “Do we know anyone with a normal fucking family?” There’s a charged silence on the line. “Ginge?”
“Well, actually….”
“Actually…?”
“I kind of… met someone. And his family seems about as normal as they come.”
“Holy shit, you already met his family? Tell me.”
“Well…. You know him, actually. You remember that sandwich place that opened down the street from the shop at the beginning of the summer?”
“The one you said had real bagels?”
“Yeah. Anyway, you remember the cute guy who worked there?”
“Uh, dude, not to judge, seriously, but that guy’s like eighteen.”
“No, not the kid with the glasses! The redhead.”
“Oh shit, right. He’s hot, in a Josh Homme kind of way.”
“I know, right? That’s exactly what I thought. I went in there for a bagel and cream cheese a few weeks ago before I opened the shop. I was half-asleep—you know how I am before I’ve had my coffee—and I dropped the bagel on the floor as I was putting cream in my coffee.”
“Uh-oh. Thou hast not seen rage like the rage of a Ginger sans bagel and coffee.”
“Seriously. So, I drop the bagel and I’m just like swearing a blue streak, right? And that’s when he comes in the door. And he looks at glasses guy behind the counter in horror—like, what the hell did you do to make this lady lose her shit. Glasses guy’s kind of terrified, so I say, ‘Oh, no, it was my fault; I just dropped my bagel,’ thinking he’d nod and smile. But he walked behind the counter and made me another bagel and cream cheese, then put it in a bag with three other bagels and filled up a to-go container of cream cheese—that awesome chive stuff. And he hands it to me and says—get this: ‘Just in case the vagaries of your day find you needing another one.’ I mean, who the fuck says that? At first I thought, ruh roh: potential overly sincere Renaissance festival douchebag? But then he winked at me. A really filthy, flirtatious wink. And, of course, I went back for another bagel the next day.”
“That’s hot, Ginge. So, you’ve met his family?”
“Oh, not intentionally. Turns out glasses guy is his cousin and his dad comes by to fix stuff in the shop all the time. His mom sometimes brings him lunch. It’s hilarious. Every time he’s all, ‘Mom, I make food here,’ and she’s like, ‘give your mother a kiss and shut your mouth.’ Priceless, babycakes! Anyway, they’re so nice.”
“So, why don’t you have Thanksgiving with him? What’s his name, by the way, so I don’t just think of him as Josh Homme—or as The Ginger, which would be confusing.”
“His name’s Christopher. And I don’t know. I think it’s too soon. Like, he’ll be having dinner at his parents’ and we only started dating a couple of weeks ago, so.”
“You could always invite him over for a postdinner Thanksgiving burrito at your place,” I offer.
“Huh. Not a bad idea, sweetie. Not a bad idea at all.”
“CAN YOU grab some butter?” Rex asks me.
We’re at the grocery store buying some last-minute additions for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, security items, really, since Rex has planned about three alternate dinner menus. Really, I have no idea what we’ll be eating, except that there’s a turkey, which I got back to his house yesterday to find in the sink.
We’ve already been to an indoor farmer’s market about twenty miles from here that Rex apparently frequents, where I embarrassed myself in front of several vendors and Rex by buying fennel because I thought it was the celery Rex sent me to get, so god knows why he’s asking me to pick up anything. Still, I can hardly fuck up butter, can I?