Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 147136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 736(@200wpm)___ 589(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 736(@200wpm)___ 589(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
“Are you fucking serious?” I grated.
“Yeah,” she replied hesitantly. “What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” I asked harshly. “You send me a text saying you almost died and what, you’re expecting me to respond with a ‘That’s fuckin’ great, Wild,’ or ‘Glad you didn’t kick it,’ like I don’t give enough of a shit about you at this point to call and ask what the fuck you mean by that. Then you’re gonna get on my ass because I sound mad when I have every fucking right to sound mad after reading that text and further listening to you downplay it like something happening to you is one big fucking joke, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”
“Um …”
“To answer your question, babe, no, I am not okay.”
She was silent for a moment, then with a quiet voice asked, “You’d care if something happened to me?”
I stared at the wall.
What the fuck?
“You serious, Wild?”
“You give a shit about me.”
She stated this. It wasn’t offered up as a question.
I rubbed at my face.
How the fuck could she think I didn’t?
“Yeah. I do, Syd. I give a shit about you.”
Exposing that about myself should’ve felt strange and maybe a little wrong, but it didn’t. I wanted her to know. I wanted Sydney to understand why I was reacting this way and why I would always react this way.
If she was expecting feelings to be left out of this, whatever this was between us, it was too fucking late for that.
I heard her soft breathing in my ear as I moved to the leather chair facing the desk and collapsed into it.
“My mom sent me pamphlets on marriage counseling in the mail today,” she began, this time without a hint of amusement in her voice.
I knew she was no longer smiling. In fact, I pictured her sitting on her bed and twisting a lock of hair around her finger, an admitted habit of hers, and doing this while her eyes remained downcast and her shoulders slouched.
Her mom always took the fire out of her when they spoke. I fucking hated it.
She sighed, then continued.
“Like I’d even consider counseling with Marcus at this point. So Tori suggested we put them in a pot and set them on fire, which I thought was a great idea because it would destroy all evidence of those stupid pamphlets.” She took a deep breath. “We did. It got a little out of control when bits of flaming paper started floating out of the pot and onto her carpet, but Tori has a fire extinguisher so we were able to put it out.”
“You didn’t get hurt?” I asked.
“No. Not at all …” Her voice trailed off. “Are you mad at me?”
Now it was my turn to smile.
I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling.
“A little. But it helps you’re alive, so I’m sure when we talk later tonight, I’ll be over it.”
“Mm. And you give a shit about me.”
She was teasing now. Doing it smiling again, I was sure of.
But I knew Sydney. I knew even though she was teasing and making me eat my confession from minutes ago, she still liked knowing how I felt. And she let me know just how much she liked knowing it with the next words out of her mouth.
“I give a shit about you too, Brian,” she admitted softly. “A really big shit.”
“Glad we’re on the same page, babe,” I chuckled.
“The giving a shit page? I’ve been on it. Glad you caught up, babe.”
This time when I laughed, I didn’t hold it in for the sake of being quiet. I gave it to her.
And I took what she gave me—her own admitted feelings and her sweet as fuck giggle. I took them.
With no intention of giving them back.
* * *
Famous person (dead or alive) you’d want to have dinner with. Go.
Easy. Bill Fucking Murray.
Venkman? Really?
Hell yeah. He’s a legend.
I think out of all the Ghostbusters, I’d want to have dinner with Janine.
Janine wasn’t a Ghostbuster, babe.
She was, sort of.
No.
She had a major role in the films.
No.
And the coolest hair in 2.
Didn’t make her a Ghostbuster.
She worked with them! Guilty by association.
She have a proton pack? Flight suit?
She had the coolest hair on the show, Brian!
I laughed and dropped my head back against the Adirondack chair I was lounging in, my bare feet braced on the railing that wrapped around the deck and my eyes skyward, watching an airplane’s lights blink against dark blue night.
Two and a half weeks of Wild and I was hooked on our conversations, every single type of conversation with her.
Talking. Texting. Random thoughts she’d share with me. Invading questions I avoided and ones like this that were simple and pointless and I knew, deep in my marrow and veins and ventricles, persuaded answers from me she’d never forget, because that’s the kind of girl Sydney was.