Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
It makes me miss my own parents a lot, and my eyes get hot. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to cry in front of a stranger, especially not this man, so I rub my eyes and fake sneeze like barn dust and hay are too much for me at the moment, though I don’t think he’s buying it.
I take a seat on a bale a few feet away, and we listen to the cats eat.
Smack, chomp. Smack, smack, chomp.
I love the way this place smells and the quiet in here. I love these two animals who I can talk to whenever I like. I love their soft purrs, warm bodies, and usually non-judgmental stares. Once, I made the mistake of bringing the wrong brand of soft food when the store was sold out of their usual, and they gave me the freaking cold shoulder over that one. There was plenty of judgment that day.
“So, Beau…what’s your story?” I don’t mean to say that. I should stop talking. I’m okay with silence. I don’t know why that popped out like I’m one of those people who can’t just sit and be still.
I have to look at him now, and when I do, I find he’s already looking at me. His eyes are dark and unreadable, and his face is totally blank. Like, creepy blank. He’s doing that on purpose. “What do you mean my story?”
Nothing. “Like your personal details.” Damn it. That’s the last place I want to go.
“I thought you said no details to keep things professional.” He doesn’t look offended, but then, he doesn’t look anything.
“Technically, I said no details about other people.” Technically, I should shut it. “I don’t mind giving you some details about me.” That’s great. Talk about myself. I have a whole freaking fake life I’ve rehearsed the details of. This is the me that people get to see. Even the ones I like and trust. It’s not them. It’s the only way I can keep myself safe. I basically wrote myself a whole new life and filled it with just enough silly details and flaws that people find it relatable and, thus, believable.
Beau gets this crease in his forehead without frowning or smiling. It’s like his forehead is the only thing expressing any emotion. His forehead looks like he doesn’t believe me.
His forehead looks like he doesn’t want to respond, but then he does. “I had a rather bad start in life that turned into a good start. I guess a lot of people would think it’s sad, but it just is what it is.” It’s so raw, and his voice goes so low that I know he’s not lying. He looks surprised, as though he just walked into a snare he didn’t see coming that’s set out in the woods. “I was adopted. Unwanted, but that turned around. The people who adopted me wanted me and loved me very much.”
Is it weird that he doesn’t call them his mom and dad?
There’s a brokenness near the end that tells me not to pry. I’m good at this. Normally. I sit here right now in silence, listening to the cats eat again. They’re still going hard at that salmon. Cat lips smacking is a thing Beau hasn’t been privy to. He notices the sound and turns toward it, a slight, odd smile on his lips. I like it. I think that’s what he looks like when he’s not trying to look like nothing at all.
“You have a good rags to riches story then. Do tell.” I cross one leg over the other, getting comfortable. I really do want to hear it.
Oddly enough, despite that frown line making a reappearance, I think he does want to talk about it. There’s something cathartic about telling a stranger things. But he presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything. I feel like he needs coaxing. I’m getting the vibe that he doesn’t want me to sit here silently or change the subject. He wants me to probe.
“You look like you don’t tell anyone, but you also don’t sleep in a stranger’s bed as a rule. So, why not? It’s not like this is real. It’s a break from reality. If you’re lonely, searching for a connection, or you want companionship, then I can do that. I’m no therapist, but I can be a friend who listens. I know you’re technically paying me, but that’s also technically for my bed rental. This is above and beyond. You might think I’m just good at this because it’s my job, but maybe that makes it easier. Do you want to tell me about your parents?”
“No,” he grunts, but it sounds a lot more like, “No, but make me.”
I’m all too familiar with how pressing on a painful spot is sometimes necessary. Sometimes, it hurts, but then it brings relief. And sometimes, it hurts, but the pain feels good.