Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I shot him a look.
“No, I know. But he gave up the drugs and alcohol too, and he was never addicted to nicotine, so unlike me, he doesn’t look like a crazy person leaning into smoke when he’s walking down the street and people are exhaling.”
“I can see you doing that.”
“It’s embarrassing, but what I mean when I say he’s changed, it’s that the man now has only two things in life that he wants.”
“He told us. He’s working on an album.”
“He is. He’s writing again. Finally. And that’s great. That’s amazing. But what he wants, what he needs, is a home and you.”
It hurt like I didn’t think it would, or could, and I stood up fast. “Really, I can’t hear that.”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, getting up, taking my empty cup from me and then bumping me with his shoulder. “Let’s walk back.”
After he threw the cups away, we again stepped into the street, walking single file down the road until we were back where we started, in front of my place.
“So you’ll like this,” he said, like things hadn’t been heavy a moment before. “Guess who’s living with me and Angie and our little girl?”
“Tell me.”
He tipped his head at me, then raised his hands up like it was obvious, made me smile.
“Luther?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Fuckin’ Luther.”
“You love him.”
“I used to love him. Now he’s annoying.”
I crossed my arms. “Go on.”
“While living in California, he turned into a hipster vegan.”
Really, I tried so hard not to laugh.
“Dude, he has a man bun now, he makes kombucha—that’s basically all he drinks besides more water than I think is healthy—he and Angie do yoga in our backyard, and apparently, deodorant is bad for you, did you know that? He’s rubbing this natural stone something on his armpits, and he smells like patchouli, not because he’s smoking weed, but because he likes it. Who likes patchouli?” He sounded utterly horrified.
“I can’t wait to see him.”
“You’re gonna freak out. He’s all touchy-feely now too. He’ll stare at me and tell me how clear my aura is.”
It was too much, and I started chuckling.
“I mean seriously, my aura?”
“Stop,” I barely got out.
“And of course, the baby loves him because he’s covered in mandalas and he wears tie-dye, and when she gets older, she’ll think he’s a Muppet.”
After a few moments, I exhaled a deep breath. “What about Carlos and Enoch?”
“Enoch got married, did you hear that?”
“No, I have not been in the loop on anything. When Dawson cut the cord, that was it.”
He squinted at me.
“What?”
“That was never his intention.”
It was my fault that time. I brought him up. “Sorry. Tell me about Enoch.”
“I just need to say really quick that Dawson honestly thought you guys hit pause on everything. He thought his life here, you, would be waiting for him when he finally got his musical career sorted out how he wanted, and then, later, once he got clean.”
I cleared my throat. “You’re a good friend to him, Ben, but let’s not kid ourselves. After the last time I saw you all, he made a choice not to talk to me anymore. And I get it. His career meant more, and that’s understandable. But there was no pause. There was only an end.”
After a moment, he nodded. “I told him that. I said, you can’t expect people to wait when you don’t say anything.”
“I mean, look at you.”
“That’s true. I made sure I flew home or sent Angie a ticket so she could get to me. I was not letting that girl ever get rid of me.”
It made perfect sense. Angela Jackson was a goddess. “Exactly.”
He huffed out a breath. “Well, okay, so Enoch married this guy, Neville, who writes a webcomic called Karma and the Dragon, about this police detective in San Francisco who solves crimes with the help of a thousand-year-old Shaolin monk.”
“Oh. That sounds pretty good.”
“It is good. So good, in fact, that Netflix is making it into a show. It’s in production now, and everyone is very excited.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Unlike Luther,” he said with an eye roll, “they got a place over on Telegraph, because along with playing the guitar in the band, Enoch makes pottery now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And it’s nice. Like, I have plates and mugs and shit. He’ll bring you stuff too because, as Luther felt the need to explain to me, gift-giving is his love language.”
“Enoch’s love language.”
“That’s correct.”
“I am very much enjoying how annoyed you are about Luther.”
“I will remind you about this when he shows up in his long, flowing outfits and his sandals and his man bun.”
“So you’re saying there’s no more leather pants and cowboy hats?” I teased him.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s still Luther, and I love him, but he needs to get his own place, even though we do, in fact, have an apartment over our garage.”