Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Tears spill onto the countertop, collecting in little raised pools across the white surface. My torso feels mushy, overly full, emotions elbowing for room.
It’s too much.
And still not enough, because above all the noise and commotion, I realize I only want one thing: connection. For the pieces inside me to come together and make sense as a whole. It’s the only way I think I’ll genuinely stop believing that love is conditional. That I only become lovable if I do constantly for others. That people will only want me around if I’m small, helpful, and quiet. If I’m grateful for any scraps of attention or love they throw my way.
Because it is all connected. My sense of self-worth. Figuring out what I need and saying it out loud. Treating myself better in an attempt to not hate who I am.
The one place where it does all come together? Where I feel the connection actively taking place in my head and heart, my body too?
It’s with Brooks.
I’m learning how to integrate all these parts of myself from him. He’s showing me how to dismantle the bullshit I’ve been fed about being a good girl, a good daughter, a good time.
He’s doing it so I can be good to myself.
“Keira.” I put a hand on my forehead. “I’m in trouble. So much fucking trouble.”
She wraps me in a hug. “Trouble’s not always a bad thing. Especially when a six-three blond’s involved. Is he—?”
“Proportionate?” I laugh. “Yes. I’ve had to take a lot of Advil this weekend.”
Keira half giggles, half groans. “If only all of us could lose our virginity to such a specimen. Congrats, friend.”
I’m at the bakery later that night when I get a text from Brooks.
It’s a picture of laundry. A stack of shirts. Identical grey and white socks, organized in pairs. Navy blue briefs. All neatly folded on a black countertop in what appears to be a soaring kitchen.
I feel that pinch in my chest again. I’ve never been to Brooks’s place. I only know he lives in one of the luxury high-rises uptown.
I want to know more. His taste in furniture. What color sheets he sleeps on (I know for a fact they most definitely do not smell like Axe body spray and sweat). Does he cook? What’s in his fridge?
Does he have a whole closet just for his dark-colored sweater collection?
I glance around the back room at Drury Lane. Hannah and Dustin did a surprisingly awesome job keeping the place running this weekend. According to our receipts, we had a record two-day stretch. At this rate, I’ll be able to promote both employees and pay myself a decent salary in the not-so-distant future.
I feel like I’m getting away with something again. When is the other shoe going to drop?
Is this the part when I fall on my face?
Brooks Huntley
I’ve been thinking. Which means I’ve been thinking about you.
I set down my pen, smiling.
Greer
Funny, I’ve had the same problem.
Brooks
I didn’t say it was a problem.
A couple hours ago, I was crying like a baby in my kitchen. Now I’m smiling hard enough for it to hurt.
Greer
I’m supposed to be reconciling my business accounts right now. But I can’t focus for the life of me.
Brooks
Sounds like you need to hit the reset button. Lucky for you, I know your buttons quite well now.
Unlucky for me, you’re not here, I think to myself.
Brooks
How are you feeling?
Frustrated, I think.
Greer
Tired. But somehow wired too?
Brooks
I know the feeling. I’m going to attempt to get some sleep. Goodnight, sweetheart. Don’t stay up too late working.
My heart is skipping multiple beats at this point.
Greer
Okay. Goodnight.
Brooks
I miss you.
Cardiac arrest territory.
Greer
I miss you too.
Chapter Twenty-One
BROOKS
I do not sleep a fucking wink.
My bed feels huge and uncomfortably cold without Greer in it. I toss and turn all night. The only relief I get is after I masturbate not once, but twice. I think about her saying my name. Taking me in her mouth.
At a quarter till four, I finally throw the covers off. “That’s it,” I say to the silence. “I’m done.”
Done feeling like shit.
Done being alone.
I turn my condo upside-down in an attempt to find my spare elevator fob and door key. Fob is in a drawer in the guest room (why?). I locate the key in a golf bag I think I used once, to play a miserable nine holes with Dad at an Atlas & Teton function (again, why?).
Whatever. I set them out next to my A&T badge on the counter and hit the gym.
My workout flies by. It’s a nice change of pace from the slog exercising has been lately. Probably because I get to think about what I’m ordering in for dinner for Greer and me tonight. Should I make Manhattans?
Condoms. Need to pick up more of those.
Lots more.
I have butterflies when I walk onto the trading floor a couple hours later. I’m excited to see Greer. Nervous to run into Porg. I’ve been so preoccupied daydreaming about Greer that I haven’t given much thought to what I’m going to say. How I’m going to tell him I slept with his sister and now I’m giving her the key to my place because I can’t drift off without her.