Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
I’m still, on some level, processing that the girl I was so drawn to four years ago is this even-more-beautiful-than-before woman here in Amsterdam, in my favorite brown bar, watching me with the same kind of stunned excitement buzzing through my body.
“Your friends are nice,” Lennix says, popping a triangle of gouda into her mouth.
“They’re not.” I laugh. “But they were on their best behavior tonight. They can fake it when pretty girls are involved.”
“The night definitely took a turn when you guys came around.” She smiles, pushing a chunk of straight black hair behind her ear. “It’s spring break and they’re looking for hookups, so your friends might get lucky. Well, not with Viv.”
“I hope not with you. I was kind of hoping I’d have you all to myself.”
She doesn’t laugh. Or smile even. She looks up from the cheese board and levels an intense stare at me.
“Is that what you want?” she asks, her voice more casual than her eyes. “A hookup?”
If she’s asking if I want to fuck her, then of course. If she’s asking if that’s all it would be…who knows? Nothing ever felt typical where this girl was concerned. Not the way we met. Not the things I learned about her. Not the way her image, her voice, that throaty laugh would revisit me in the middle of a lecture or even while I was kissing someone else.
“I want to get to know you,” I tell her, answering and not answering as honestly as I can. “Tell me what’s been happening with you the past few years.”
“Yes, well, let’s see. I was, as predicted, grounded until graduation.”
We share a quick glance and a chuckle.
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “I wouldn’t want my seventeen-year-old daughter getting bitten by dogs and tear gassed and stuck in a holding cell with a bunch of grown men and prostitutes.”
“I didn’t get bitten by a dog.” She surprises me, reaching out to push up my sleeve and touch the scar on my forearm. “You did.”
Her fingers on my skin make my breath shorten and my body harden. Really? One touch and I’m ready to blow?
“So from grounded to graduation.” I stroke my fingertip over her thumb where it still rests on my forearm. I don’t miss the quick catch of her breath, but I keep talking. “Then college?”
“Uh, yeah.” She traces the labyrinthic pattern of my fingerprint. “Arizona State.”
“Major?”
“Public service and public policy with a concentration in American Indian studies.”
“Cool.” I squeeze the hand still resting on my arm. “What do you want to do?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. Maybe get my master’s. I’ve been offered a pretty prestigious fellowship, which would require I serve in some field-related area for a year, or I have a great job offer from a firm in DC.”
“What kind of firm?”
“A lobbying firm. For some reason, I think I may end up in politics.” She eyes me closely. “I remember you went to Berkeley. That was…undergrad?”
“Undergrad and my master’s. I just finished my PhD in climate science.”
“Wow. So Doctor Kingsman. I would never have guessed.”
“What would you have guessed?”
She squints one eye and hums, considering. “Business maybe?”
“I double majored in business and energy resources engineering at Berkeley, so you’re not far off there.”
“Why those fields?”
“Just seemed smart to have a business background.” I don’t add that my family’s company has been a Forbes lister for decades.
“And the energy resources?” she asks. “How’d you come to that?”
“I’m fascinated by the climate. How we can reverse all the crap we’re doing to ruin this planet. Most importantly, how America can become less dependent on fossil fuels. Our leaders are so damn shortsighted, leaning on oil and gas as much as we do. It’s not sustainable.”
“Is that why you were there protesting the pipeline?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I rush on before she can probe any further. “So still figuring out what you want to do with the degree, huh?”
“I know I want to change the world. I’m just not sure how yet.”
I’ve never heard anyone more confident saying they don’t know something. She says it like she is the question—like as soon as she determines her plan of action, the world will be putty in her hands to shape and mold into something better. I could laugh in her face, call her naive, but I don’t because I feel the same way.
“I get that,” I reply, linking my pinky finger with hers on the table. “Sometimes my goals and dreams feel too big. Like you really think you can convince a nation to change its ways? And the answer is always yes. I don’t know how either, but yes.” I force a chuckle, growing uncomfortable under her unwavering regard. “Is that arrogant? Presumptuous?”
“Yes, but I think revolution requires a certain degree of hubris.”
“Who said that?” I ask, racking my brain for a reference for the quote.