Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
He arches a brow, then like he’s maybe resetting from a few seconds ago, he nods. “I’m down with that. So you want a tune to celebrate your whole new life here and all?”
Yes, he gets me. “That sounds perfect. But what about you? Do you have a celebration song?”
“Sure. When I score a touchdown at home, The Mercenaries play Stone Zenith’s ‘He’s One Badass Dude.’”
I crack up. “You do know Stone wrote that about his husband?”
Gabe scoffs. “And his hubs is a badass dude. And so am I.”
“Fair point.”
Gabe pats the dashboard. “What’s your tune? Let’s blast it.”
“Ten-Speed Rabbit’s ‘I Got This,’” I say. A great song by a fabulous English group.
“I don’t know that song or the band,” he says.
“Allow me to introduce you, then. The lead singer was my friend Veronica’s first client, so I gotta support my girls. ‘I Got This’ is definitely my walk-up song. It’s the ultimate girl-power tune.” I point to my phone, excited to share something I love with him, like the bedtime story the other night. “Playlist two.”
He hits the song. The lyrics blast through the air, lifting me higher. Don’t worry about me, Doing it my way, My girls and me, We’ve got a plan.
He turns introspective.
“Sing with me,” I urge as I rock out to the tune’s epic chorus that my friends and I know by our karaoke hearts. I’ve got this, I’ve got this.
But he flashes me a brief smile, then returns to watching the houses pass by. I try to keep the mood upbeat, belting out the anthem as we go.
As the closing notes fade, we pull up to my parents’ home. I feel energized again, from the song, from the conversation, from the possibility of talking to him tonight. On the ride home perhaps. Or maybe at my house. I’ll use this time at the party to sift through my feelings and figure out what to say exactly.
When I cut the engine, I stare at the two-story white house with green shutters and planters bursting with flowers.
Whoa.
Butterflies flap in my chest then crawl up my throat.
I’m going into my childhood home with the guy down the street. This is so surreal. This was my high school fantasy.
Now it’s my reality. But…not really. It’s still just a dating challenge until I tell him my heart.
I don’t want to play this game anymore.
I resolve to be real. To be truly vulnerable once again. And why wait till the end of the night? I could say something right now. Tell him I don’t want to go our separate ways.
I turn to him. “Gabe—”
But he’s already leaning across the console, brushing a chaste kiss to my cheek, shutting me up. “It’s our last night. We’ve been practicing all week. Like the song says, you’ve got this,” he says, then pats the dashboard and jumps out of the car.
Resolute.
Confident.
He’s a badass dude strutting away from scoring a touchdown, ready for the next play.
When all I can hear is Last night, last night, last night.
Everything I was going to say lodges in my throat as he comes around to the driver’s side and opens my door.
I step out, bewildered and off-balance.
Was that heavy-handed reminder necessary? And in that cocky tone too.
Grabbing the gift I bought for Aunt Tilly from the back seat, along with the lemonade for Mom, I head up the steps, aching everywhere.
I was foolishly hoping he might want more too.
But this was only ever a fling.
When my mom sweeps open the door, I give her a big and necessary hug. It’s good to be home. It’s good to see her especially as I hold back the knot of emotions in my throat.
25
CROQUET OOMPH
Gabe
This sucks.
I nurse a cup of pink lemonade and tap a purple ball with a wooden mallet.
The ball rolls painfully slowly as my dad, alongside Ellie’s, flips beef and veggie burgers on the grill.
My mom chuckles then shakes her head. “Gabe, hon, you have to hit it harder.”
“Surely, you can put some more oomph into lawn croquet,” Ellie’s mom encourages.
“Normally, you’re such a pro at this,” Tilly weighs in.
Gee. Anyone else want to comment on my shitty technique?
I don’t need advice. I know the reason for my poor performance. I’ve been distracted by my sullen mood.
It’s not Mom’s fault. Or Mrs. Snow’s. Or Tilly’s.
Hell, it’s hardly Ellie’s fault.
It’s fucking fate’s fault.
Nope. That’s wrong. It’s my fault.
I can’t even fashion a smart comeback. Instead, I mutter, “Thanks for the tips.” I head to the purple ball, which is next to Ellie. She smells like cherry blossoms. That sucks too.
She smells too wonderful. Too much like my future.
But she’s not mine. Hell, she never was. And tonight she’s simply my…fake date?
Fuck. I don’t even know what she is anymore, except…she’s moving on.
That I know for sure. She’s made that abundantly clear in the last twenty-four hours. She is an independent woman, and she needs no man.