Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
She fights to keep her smile down. She pretends to be serious, but her eyes are twinkling away. “Are your toes hairy, Darius?”
“I mean, probably. There has to be a stray hair or two down there somewhere.”
Something dings, and Everleigh shifts, pulling out her phone. She’s frowning as she does it, a knee-jerk reaction, probably because she’s used to getting bad news and having to deal with it on her own, but then she grins. “Oh my god.” She whips the phone around to me. “This is getting out of control. Look at this.” I’m looking at a photo of a large cat post, a set of dishes, a litter box, and a stack of toys. “They went out and got all of this. I told you, it’s already gone too far. Heather always wanted a pet, but we really couldn’t afford one before.”
“So she’s adopting a mangy cat?”
“Looks that way. If he comes back. Because who knows? He might not. But if he really is a stray, and he’s hungry and they’re leaving food out, chances are, he’ll be back. He can come and go as he pleases. Don’t people say you never really own a cat? They own you. Or that they choose you or something.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a cat.”
“Did you have any pets growing up?”
“A snake.”
“Ahh. So you’re the unconventional type. I like it. Snakes are super cool.”
“No analogies? That’s very kind.”
“You mean I should insinuate that the type of pet a person owns says something about their personality? Then your brother, I’m sorry to say, would have a mad collection of dicks going. Or asses. Donkeys! Yes, that’s it! He’d own a donkey.”
Lord, this is too entertaining. I shouldn’t laugh. I really shouldn’t laugh because of family solidarity and all that. But of course, I laugh. Funny. This girl, my wife. She’s funny.
“I’m sorry I’ve been calling Hans a goon,” she said.
“To his face?”
“N—no, I don’t think so. Well, not after that first showdown when I woke up tied up on the bed. But I’ve been calling him that in my head. I might have used the term goonzilla a few times in the privacy of my brain. I feel kind of bad now, though, because he kind of did save your life last night after I just about literally drowned you.”
“Goonzilla,” I test it out with a sigh. “Nah, he’s not really a goon. Just a big guy who went looking for adventure because he became bored doing what he was doing.”
“And what was he doing?”
“Science. Physics.”
There’s no gasp of surprise, which is quite admirable because Everleigh’s jaw cracks an inch. “I guess this is where you insert the popular and incredibly token notion of not judging a book by its cover.” She picks up a spear of asparagus and munches on it. “My god, these are incredible. I don’t know how your chef does it, but he or she managed to turn something I don’t like into something I do. They’re magic, I tell you. Straight up wizards in there.”
“I’ll pass on the compliments.”
He might pass on some beard hairs later in return.
We’re both quiet for a few minutes as we eat. The food is too good to waste anything by letting it get cold. Or, rather, colder. We’ve already been talking for a few minutes, but it was piping hot before, so I guess now it’s at that just-right stage. We eat until we’re stuffed. I know I am, and Everleigh pushes back in her chair.
“I’m so full that I could explode,” she mutters. She glances at the plate, which is still half full. “Do they, like, put the leftovers in the fridge for later? Because I feel really bad about wasting.” I know for a fact that none of the leftovers get saved, so I kind of make a choking noise. Everleigh nods. “I figured as much. You need to get a dog. They would eat well.”
“Ha. Me with a dog. That’s funny.”
“Why? You like to walk everywhere. I think a dog would be a perfect match for you.”
Yup, this girl. She just made a joke about something no one else would dare to joke about because it’s damn tragic how it came about. Yet somehow, she’s not making fun of me at all. To my amazement, I find myself laughing softly. No one makes me laugh. Not really. Except for Hans. He’s got being funny down to a science.
“I think this might work out,” I say cautiously as I study my new wife. That’s such a strange word.
She studies me back just as cautiously. We’re both staring at each other, sizing each other up, but not in that pissing contest, enemies kind of way. Rather, it’s more of a surprised at how this might be an okay situation despite it all kind of an appraisal. There are all the elements of surprise and pleasure that make my chest feel funny. It’s not in the same way that my nuts felt funny for the better part of last night, the way my shoulder feels funny when it starts aching and tugging after a long day, or just because it’s being an asshole and giving me a hard time for no particular reason. No, this stitch in my chest feels like a needle and thread punctured both lungs, and it’s sewing them back up to half their capacity because it’s a little bit hard to breathe, but it’s not as unpleasant as all that. It’s actually not bad at all.