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)
He’s looking at me in the mirror, his light eyes fixed on mine. I can smell him behind me: wood smoke and damp wool and something lightly piney, like deodorant. Or, hey, I guess in the woods it could actually be pine. I can feel the warmth he’s giving off and it reminds me of how cold I am. He turns me around by the shoulders again, like he’s my rudder.
I shiver. I dropped my coat by the door, but even though it was cold out, I sweat through my shirt and suit coat while I was carrying the dog, and now they’ve turned cold and clammy. The tie I borrowed from my brother, Sam, and the new white shirt I bought for my interview are both streaked with blood.
“Shit.” I halfheartedly swipe at the blood. As I rub a little harder, I wince, realizing that my chest is sore.
“Were you wearing your seat belt?”
“Huh?” I feel like I’m processing everything five seconds after he says it. “Oh, yeah.”
He slides my suit jacket off my shoulders and starts to unbutton my shirt.
“Um,” I mumble. He bats my hand away and pulls my shirt apart. When I look down, I can see a purple bruise forming in the shape of my seat belt. Well, good to know it worked, I guess. The bruise is long, disappearing into the tattoos that cover most of my torso.
“Tell me if it’s particularly tender anywhere.” He probes the length of the bruise gently.
“No, it’s okay,” I say, half because it’s true and half because I can’t think with his fingers on my skin. His hands are warm the way big guys’ are sometimes—great circulation, I guess.
“Wasn’t expecting those,” he says, gesturing to my tattoos. It’s funny. Anyone who meets me when I’m dressed professionally is surprised to find out I have tattoos, but anyone who knows me from my real life—at concerts, coffee shops, or just around—thinks my professional drag looks out of place.
I shrug and he gives me a cursory once-over, looking for other bruises.
“Take your pants off.”
“Oh, um, I—” I scooch backward, away from him. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it together standing in front of this gorgeous man almost naked. “Maybe, could I just take a shower?”
He doesn’t say anything, but turns the water on and grabs a towel from a shelf on the wall. It’s forest green. It seems like everything about him and this house is green and brown. Earthy.
“Here, give me your clothes,” he says. “I’ll get you something of mine to wear.”
When he leaves, I toe my dress shoes off, trying not to notice that anyone who looked could see the soles are worn almost through, but they’re polished to a mirror shine—or, at least, they were before my trek in through the woods. Five-dollar-new-shoes: that’s what my dad always called a shoeshine.
He knocks a minute later and hands me a pile of neatly folded sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he hands me a drink.
“I thought you could use something to warm you up.”
I sniff it. Whiskey. I down it like a shot.
“Thanks.”
He backs out of the bathroom and I undress and step under the hot water with a sigh.
I can’t let myself think any more about this shit show of a day—much less the fact that I’m in the shower of a total stranger who may or may not be about to axe murder me and wrap me up in this shower curtain—or I’m going to lose it. Instead, I pretend like Ginger is giving me a stern talking-to because, unlike mine, Ginger’s talking-tos sometimes work. Well, first Ginger would tell me to have a fucking drink, so I’m good on that count. Then it would probably go something like this:
Me: I’m having a nervous breakdown. I have no clue what I should be doing with my life. What if my dad is right and academia is for assholes who think they’re better than everyone else but never do a day’s work in their lives?
Ginger: Your dad is a fucking idiot. We know this. First of all, you don’t have to know what you’re doing with your whole life. Just what you’re doing right now. And right now, you’re being a professor. Second, you don’t think you’re better than everyone. Third, you’ve worked hard your entire life.
Me: Okay, but what if Richard’s right and I’m not really smart enough to do this? I mean, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that he was having sex with approximately 10 percent of Philadelphia, even though everyone else knew.
Ginger: Richard is a fucking idiot. Also, he looks like a boring version of an Abercrombie and Fitch model. You hate that all-American shit. You only went out with him because you were insecure about being the only one at Penn whose parents weren’t professor-types. You were flattered when he wanted to go out with you because you thought it meant you were smart. Well, you are smart, but that was stupid. You’re smart enough to be a professor; that’s why you’re going to get this job.