Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
I move past it to the fridge, which I pull open, squinting inside at its contents. Beer. Beer. Beer. Beer. Half-empty quart of orange juice. Beer. More beer. Styrofoam container of who-knows. I lean my head in further, and that’s when I spot a six-pack of some off-brand soda behind all the beer. I snatch one, then let the fridge door shut as I crack open the soda and take a casual sip. My feet carry me slowly around the kitchen and dining area, which loops to a short front entryway, and then back to the living room.
And on this side of the living room, I find myself at an angle that lines up with the short hall leading to the bathroom—where I notice that the door is wide open. I stare at that door for a while. Doesn’t his stepdad, stepbrother, and mom live here? Why is he showering with the door open? The can of soda hangs from my fingers, forgotten, as I listen to the water splattering and drumming in the bathroom. Standing there like a damned goon, I can’t help but reflect on PE class this whole past week with Toby changing right next to me. At my old high school, we took showers after PE. At Spruce High, we don’t—not that they even give us enough time to, anyway. But what I’m witnessing right now is making me think things. Things like: why don’t we take showers in gym class? And what would it be like if we did?
What would it be like if I was showering next to Toby, nothing between us but steam, water, and soapsuds? What would happen?
The second I have the thought, the water cuts off. I hear the swish of a shower curtain, a huff of annoyance, and then a softly spoken whisper. Is he whispering to himself? I rush up to the mouth of the hallway, but keep myself around the corner, out of sight, just close enough to listen. I hear: “… don’t be weird, don’t be weird …” What is he going on about? I lean my head a bit closer, straining to hear. “... isn’t stopping him, so why should it stop me? You got this. You got this. He’s just … oh, crap, do I not have any underwear? The hell? Ugh, Lee, you idiot. This is my drawer.” A drawer opens. A drawer shuts. “It’s official, I hate the world, and the world hates me. What the hell is my hair doing? Stop that. Stop doing that. No, go this way. No, thiiis way.”
I shake my head. Toby’s so damned neurotic.
My eyes catch sight of Winona on the couch, whose head has popped up again. She’s staring at me with this weird, accusatory look. I frown at her. Go back to sleep, Winnie. Stop judging me. I’m not sneaking a peek in the actual bathroom.
The next instant, Toby whips out from the hall, doesn’t even see me, and heads straight for the kitchen, shirtless, wearing just a pair of loose white basketball shorts with a wide, royal blue stripe down the sides. From the cleavage I notice in his butt and the way the material of those shorts clings to it, I’d say he was unsuccessful in finding any underwear. I listen to him rummage in the kitchen for a while before I push away from the wall, go across the living room, and put myself under the archway. Toby is bent over, the top half of him buried in the fridge as he digs for something.
And I stare right at his cute ass, enjoying the view, as I take a big swig of my soda. Hell, now I almost don’t want to alert him to my presence. Why ruin this moment?
Toby sighs somewhere in the wintry landscape of the interior of the fridge. “Did Lee take one?” he mutters to himself. “The hell? When did Coach Strong start lettin’ the team drink soda?”
Alright, fine, I give. “Helped myself, actually,” I announce.
Toby straightens up so fast, he thwacks his head inside the fridge, shouts out, then rubs it with a scowl as he yanks himself out and stares at me, stunned. “I th-thought you … you were …?”
I lift my can, giving it a shake. “You offered, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, I did, right. I just—” He crosses his arms, appearing awkward. “Sorry. Couldn’t find a dang shirt.”
Or underwear, but he doesn’t need to know I know. “Who needs a shirt?” I counter. “It’s hot as hell out there. A minute in your shed, I was already sweating down my back. You don’t need one.”
“Oh. Well, there’s a fan you could’ve—” He bites his lip, gives the fridge a moment’s consideration, then reaches back in to grab himself a soda. “Anyway, everyone’s asleep, except my mom who is probably still at Lucille’s. Late shift. So … wanna go back out?”