Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“You know,” Andi says. “I don’t think I’ve ever done casual.”
“Should I be worried, then?” I’m trying to sound nonchalant, but my pulse quickened the moment she brought up the odd arrangement we started last night on that couch. I wanted to kiss her more, but she asked to finish the movie and fell asleep before it finished. I wound up carrying her to the guest cabin bedroom, tucking her in, and sleeping alone.
Alright. I went into the bathroom and fucked my hand. Then I slept. Same difference.
“Nope. I’m sure I can figure it out. Let me guess. The difference between a casual relationship and a real one is you gotta act cool all the time, right? Roll with the punches. Oh, you’re ending things? Cool, cool. Yeah. No biggie.”
I grin. “Something like that.”
“See? I’m going to be fine.”
“One question, though.”
“Alright.”
“Does this make me your girlfriend? Or do I have to qualify it? Like, I’m your ‘casual’ girlfriend?”
“As long as you only use that kind of label with me, sure. But nobody else is supposed to know, remember?”
“So we’re casual secret boyfriend and girlfriend? Yeah,” she says, pursing her lips. “Cool, cool. No biggie.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Alright, then.”
“So where are we going, anyway?”
“I need new string lights for the tree at my cabin. Old ones are going out.”
She is barely containing her excitement. “Are we going to decorate your tree together?” She has her hands clutched up against the point of her chin, teeth clenched and eyes wide.
“If you want.”
“I do!” She punches me three times, because apparently that’s what Andi Summers does when she gets too excited. She’s like a fucking cat, or something.
I have to take her by the shoulders and steer her away before she lands any more punches. “Easy, killer.”
“Sorry,” she says, blowing a loose clump of hair out of her face. “Holiday stuff just gets me super pumped.”
“Clearly.”
“Can I decorate the rest of the cabin, too? You have boxes of stuff somewhere, right? You said it was your mom and dad’s cabin. I bet they have a treasure trove of cutesy little weird decorations.”
“There might be some stuff in the basement. I haven’t looked in years.”
“I’m on it!”
I smile, but there’s a thread of worry running through me as I hold the door to the department store open for her.
Casual.
Last night, the word felt like armor. It felt like a cure-all for any of the many problems I could list off about this arrangement. Today, it feels flimsy and weak. In the face of Andi Summers and her thousand megawatt smile, the word “casual” might as well be a wet piece of paper for all the good it’s going to do me.
I should tell her we’re not decorating together, because that’s the kind of cutesy bullshit boyfriends and girlfriends do, and we’re not supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend.
I should, but the way she lit up at the idea means I’m absolutely not going to let her down. One step down the slippery slope of my impending demise, here I come.
17
ANDI
Jesse is quietly untangling string lights on his knees while I’m humming and looking for places to hang up things. So far, I’ve made it through one of three huge boxes his mom and dad kept in the basement with all kinds of cute decorations. Jesse has mostly been messing with the same strings of tangled lights.
“Where are those guys?” he asks.
“Expecting them?” I glance over my shoulder at him. He looks irresistible in a cable-knit gray sweater and jeans, with his dark hair all tousled and messy. It’s taking everything I have not to tiptoe over to him, wrap my arms around him from behind, and kiss him on the cheek. But we’re casual.
Casual, Andi. Yep. I totally know what that means. I’m definitely not just kind of rolling with this and acting like I’m not super lost. I mean, is a casual super secret girlfriend allowed to ask her casual super secret boyfriend for a kiss? Can I hold his hand? Do I still have to pretend I never burp?
So many questions.
I stand up straight, tilt my head, and then adjust the dangly santa head again where I have it hanging from a cabinet knob. “Your parents had some really good stuff.”
Jesse grunts.
We’re grunting now, it seems. That’s how I know he’s uncomfortable. He thinks if he talks another language, I will leave him alone. He still doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.
I grunt back at him. I try to put as much emotion into the grunt as I can. I hope it’s a grunt with a slight note of curiosity and a bit of reprimand that lingers on the palette.
He glances up and the corner of his mouth twitches.
I give another grunt. This one is more overtly questioning. It’s a talk to me, bitch, kind of grunt. Strong on the tongue and tasting faintly of aged oak barrels. Or at least that’s what I’m going for.