Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
ANNELIESE: I found another one if you’re interested.
ME: Go on . . .
ANNELIESE: psychomachy . . . a conflict between soul and body.
Head cocked sideways, I rake my hand along my jaw. Am I supposed to be reading between the lines here, or is she simply sending me big words because she knows I like them? Either way, she’s at the bookstore right now, and she could be doing anything else, but she’s thinking about me.
ME: I have one for you . . . kalon—beauty that is more than skin deep.
ANNELIESE: Love it. The world needs more kalon. Did I use it correctly in that sentence?
The world needs more kalon—and I need more Anneliese.
ME: You did. A+.
ANNELIESE: Appliances are being delivered Saturday, BTW.
She changes the subject. Whether that’s intentional or not, I have no way to know. Nor do I know if we are flirting or straddling the precipice of something that neither of us anticipated.
All I know is that when I’m with her, I find myself not wanting to be anywhere else.
NINETEEN
ANNELIESE
paraprosexia (n.) constant distraction
“Hi, sweetheart. Oh, it’s so good to see you.” My mom clasps her hands on my cheeks and kisses my forehead.
“How was your flight?” I ask before giving my dad a hug.
She shoots him a look, raised eyebrows and all, which is never a good sign.
“Three hours of screaming babies and gassy travelers and a little bit of turbulence over Lake Michigan, but we made it in one piece,” he says.
My mom steps past the landing, inspecting the house for progress—like she always does. She finds it absurd that I feel the need to finish this project (alone), but she offers encouragement anyway.
“My goodness, Anneliese, the dining room looks great,” she says. “The floors turned out amazing.”
“You should see the kitchen . . . cabinets went in this week, and appliances are coming tomorrow.” I picked them out months ago, since the cabinetmakers needed the dimensions, but I didn’t want to store them in my house, so the appliance store agreed to keep them on hold until I needed them. Countertops are being templated next week, then hopefully installed the week after.
It’s all coming together so quickly . . . thanks to Lachlan.
“Okay, so there’s someone I want you to meet,” I say, leading them to the study, where I told Lachlan to wait.
My mother’s gaped expression is one of horror, and my father’s complexion turns the pale shade of unfinished Sheetrock.
I forgot that was how I introduced them to Donovan last year . . .
“What’s going on? Are you dating someone?” my father asks, hushed.
Waving my hands, I say, “No, no, no. It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like, Anneliese?” Mom crosses her arms.
“I recently found out that Donovan had a brother,” I say before correcting myself. “Has. Has a brother.”
“You didn’t know?” she asks.
“He never told me,” I say, “and before you ask, no, I don’t know why. Anyway, his name is Lachlan, and he’s staying here to help me fix up the house. He’s actually the one who did the dining room floors . . . and the landscaping out front . . . and the kitchen cabinet install . . . he’s also stripping the back deck to restore that . . .”
I motion for them to follow me into the study, where Lachlan is waiting by the window, hands shoved into the front pockets of his ripped jeans.
My parents stop in their tracks and stare, and my mother slips her arm into my father’s for support. They’re usually friendlier than this, but I didn’t think to take into consideration the shock that comes with seeing a Donovan doppelgänger for the first time.
“Lachlan, these are my parents . . . Rob and Linda,” I say. “Mom and Dad, this is Lachlan Byrne.”
He extends his hand to my father first, his gaze direct and warm. “Great to meet you.”
“You look just like him,” Mom says, her voice tapering into a whisper. “It’s uncanny.”
“I used to get that a lot,” he says. “People used to mistake us for twins, but I’m actually younger.”
“Lachlan’s been living in the UK for the last ten years,” I say, hoping they’ll accept that as the answer to why he didn’t attend his brother’s funeral. Now is not the time to get into the nitty-gritty of a situation I still don’t fully understand.
“Really?” My father straightens his shoulders. “Whereabouts?”
“All over,” Lachlan says, dropping the names of familiar cities and tacking on a handful of towns I’ve never heard of.
“I studied abroad for a year in Glasgow,” my father says. “Stayed with a lovely family. The Petermans. One of the best years of my life. We talk on the phone every New Year’s to this day—they get a kick out of calling me from the new year while I’m stuck in the old one for a few more hours.”