Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“They’re just jelly they can’t use their hand to give directions.”
Louder laughter leaves us both.
“Whatcha drinkin’?”
“Runt’s.”
“Good choice.” Lexi gives my shoulder a cordial pat and pops up to go place an order.
Alright.
I’ll stay for just one more beer.
It’s been…fucking…forever since I really talked to anyone about Michigan. I mean, yeah, Harlow listens to the shit I miss or orders me specific apple jam through my mom from a special orchard in Applecourt, but she doesn’t get mitten shit. And not in the same way I don’t get all the hockey shit.
Sports can be taught.
Mitten shit has to be felt.
This’ll be good.
We’ll reminiscence a little bit about the last place we both lived, I’ll get rid of the tiny bit of longing for it that got stirred up, and I’ll bond with the boys, which will also make my wife happy.
It’s basically a social situation hat trick.
What could possibly go wrong?
Harlow
How fucked up is this shit?
I spend the evening texting his mother about my passing vertigo—making sure I didn’t need to go to the hospital—crying my eyes out because I had to call his mother for help rather than reach out to my dad and watching Is It Cake? since he couldn’t stop fucking raving about how fun it is while this motherfucker was out enjoying a hefty amount of barely legal pussy.
Hopefully all legal.
Margot started fact checking that right when she texted me the newest social storm of the season, I so did not want to be the center of.
Fuckmylife, who I wouldn’t blow right about now to have Folgers instead of fuckery in my cup this fine October morning.
The flashing light of a text having come in calls to me to check it.
To guarantee more drama isn’t being fed to the llama fucking up my day already.
Letty: PAP AND SOC SUX.
Her short and sweet reassurance is gifted a grin I know she can’t see but probably feels.
Paparazzi and social media do fucking suck. And she of all people knows that shit firsthand. She also deals with it much more often than I do.
Right as I’m about to put my device back down a text alert from Winslow slides onto the screen prompting me to open it rather than exit out.
Winslow: WTF?! How much of that shit is true?!?!
That’s what I wanna fucking know, too.
“Morning, baby,” Brendan sleepily greets upon his entering the kitchen and my placing of my phone back down. “You’re up early.” He flashes his sweet smirk which I typically adore yet currently find repulsive. “Thought it was my turn to make us coffee.”
“It is.”
His expression immediately becomes playful. “Then why do you already have some?”
“Couldn’t wait.”
“How long you been up?”
“Couple hours.”
“Why didn’t you wake my ass up?”
“Wasn’t really sure when you had gone to bed.”
The word choice successfully stops him in his tracks. Causes him to abandon his stroll to the coffeemaker. Face me with his full attention.
I clutch the “Get Pucked” mug in my hands aggressively tighter and ask in the most even tone I can muster up, “Exactly what time did you get home last night?”
He folds his arms across his work polo covered chest. “I don’t know the exact time.”
“Would you say it was before or after midnight?”
“Um…before?”
“You sure? Or were you doing shots of tequila and playing cornhole at The Net to some shitty Nirvana cover band?”
“Given how oddly specific you’re being about this shit, I’mma guess that one. Which means I came home sometime after midnight.” His head tilts slightly to the side in what I assume is annoyance. “Is that a fucking problem? Do I have a fucking curfew you forgot to mention? Am I the grown ass dude you’re fucking or the high school in juniors you hope to recruit when he turns eighteen, so I need a bedtime on the books?”
“You fucking tell me!” I bite back at the same time I slam my mug down on the counter. “You. Got. Me. Fucked. Up. Right now!”
“What the fuck is your problem, Harlow? Is this actually about me or is this a new batch of hormone shit I’m about to pick up the tab for?”
There’s no stopping the low, seething sigh that slips past my flared nostrils.
“Okay, gonna guess by the demon noises you’re making that it’s me.”
“Yes, it’s fucking you!” Despite my best efforts to keep my emotions as much as my voice in check, I fail. Epically. “You were the one who didn’t come home until almost two o’clock this morning after spending all night out drinking!”
“You told me to get a beer with the boys!”
“I told you to get a beer not fucking down a keg! Not fucking bar hop! Not drape yourself in so much barely legal pussy that my fucking assistant has to literally track down the girls in the photograph’s ages to make sure we don’t have an additional fucking scandal to deal with!”