Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Dad sags against the concrete wall separating AquaPets from the pool equipment shop next door. He heaves a massive sigh of relief. “That was …”
“Intense,” I supply.
“Very.” He pulls his glasses off and cleans them with the hem of his T-shirt before popping them back on his face. “Thoughts?”
I join him at the wall, shoving my hands in the pockets of my denim shorts. “That Keanu Reeves turtle sounded promising.”
Dad snickers. “Really? I’m leaning toward the musk.”
“But Keanu Reeves has a shorter life expectancy,” I argue. “Do you seriously want a pet that lives for fifty years?”
“What do I care? I’ll probably be dead.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Come on, there’s no way I’ll be alive to experience that turtle’s entire life.”
“But the musks don’t like it when you touch them. They lose their shit and skunk you out, remember? Meanwhile, we were told on the good authority of Joel the Pothead that Keanu Reeves enjoys being stroked.”
“Ahem.”
Dad and I jump in surprise. Our heads swivel in the direction of the throat clearing, and at this point I’m not even surprised when I lay eyes on Tate. Since I arrived in Avalon Bay, it seems like everywhere I go, Tate Bartlett is there.
“Hi,” he says in amusement, giving a nonchalant wave.
“You know,” I say solemnly, “I long for the days of yore when I turned my head and didn’t always find you standing there in front of me.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it then occurs to me that after last night’s mortifying exchange, he might think I’m being serious. So I quickly add, “Kidding. But really, why are you here?”
He gestures toward a storefront on the other side of the parking lot. “I work at the boat dealership. Saw you from the window and came over to say hi—a decision I deeply regret because I’m not sure I want to know why you’re discussing Keanu Reeves’s love of handjobs and how you stumbled upon that information.”
I can’t stop the laugh that pops out. “You know what, not even going to explain it. I’m going to let it haunt you forever.” I notice my father sporting a questioning expression, and gesture toward Tate. “Dad, this is Tate. He’s housesitting the place next door to Grandma’s.”
Tate extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tanner.”
Dad blanches.
“Oh no, no,” I hastily intervene. “He’s not a Tanner. My mom’s side is the Tanners.”
“Clayton Soul,” Dad corrects, stepping forward to shake Tate’s hand.
“Soul?” Tate turns to me in surprise. “Your name is Cassie Soul?”
“Yeah.” I frown. “Is that bad?”
“Bad? Try bad-ass. That’s a solid name.”
“I guess? I never really thought that much about it. It’s just my name.”
There’s a long beat during which we both start fidgeting with random sections of our clothing. I toy with the hem of my tank top. Tate pretends to pick at some lint on his shirt sleeve. Damn it. Things are awkward between us now. I knew this would happen.
“Turtles!” I blurt out.
Tate startles. “What?”
“Um, my sisters demanded a pet turtle for their birthday. That’s why we’re here. Doing some research. But it sounds like turtles are kind of jerks.”
“Nah,” he disagrees. “They’re the easiest of pets. I had one when I was a kid and all it did was laze around in his tank all day. They pretty much entertain themselves.” He shrugs. “My dogs, on the other hand … needy as fuck. Dogs require attention pretty much twenty-four-seven.”
Dad chuckles. “You’re making a good case for turtles.”
“I’m telling you, they’re great.”
Another silence falls.
Tate fiddles with his other sleeve. I play with a frayed thread on my shorts. It’s unbearable. This is what rejection does to people.
“Bye!” I blurt out.
Tate blinks at the sudden dismissal. “Oh. All right. Bye.”
“I mean, we have to go now,” I amend lamely. “So, ah, goodbye. See you around.”
“Sure.” His forehead creases. “See you around.”
I practically drag Dad to the car, where I hurl myself into the passenger seat and pretend not to see Tate walking past the windshield on his way back to work.
“So,” Dad says cheerfully, “do we have a crush on that boy, or is this how you interact with all your peers? Because I remember you used to be a lot less … weird.”
“That was weird, wasn’t it?” I moan. “Do you think he noticed?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it.” My face is on fire, and I refuse to look in the side mirror because I’m certain I’m redder than a lobster. “He and I are just friends.” I pause. “I think.” Pause again. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” Dad suddenly jolts in his seat before reaching into his pocket to retrieve his buzzing phone. He checks the screen and balks. “Son of a bitch.”
“What is it?” I ask immediately, concern washing over me.
Without a word, he hands over the phone to show me the text from Nia.