Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I’m fine.” I could pick up women on my own. It was actually pretty easy and didn’t take very long. I was a really difficult person to talk to, so I truly didn’t understand why it was so effortless. But I was grateful.
“We went out a few nights ago, and she’s pretty cool. She doesn’t ramble on about shit that I don’t care about, she’s easy to get along with, she likes sports…”
I hadn’t asked, so I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this.
“Did you know she’s divorced?”
My eyes had been focused out the window, but I stopped seeing the image before me, stopped seeing the other skyscrapers in the distance. I turned back to him, surprised by that information. “No…I didn’t know.”
“I was surprised too.”
I’d told her about my divorce, but she never mentioned hers. When I tried to think about all the personal stuff I knew about her, I realized I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know her last name, anything about her family, had never asked her anything.
I considered her to be a friend…but I never treated her like one.
“She also told me—”
“I’d rather not hear about it, Tucker.” I turned back to him, my fingers wrapped around my bottle.
His fingers gripped the neck of his beer.
“She works for me. We need to have some boundaries.” Knowing him, he would tell me every little detail about their relationship, including the physical stuff…and I’d rather not know.
He released his beer and stared at me. “Deacon, are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I just don’t want to hear about it.”
Cleo rang the doorbell when she was outside my condo.
She’d texted me from the lobby, so I knew she was coming. “It’s open.” I sat on the couch with my papers scattered around me, the game on the TV.
She opened the door and stepped inside, wearing a long-sleeved dress with a blue floral print, one side of the dress with a high slit, showing some of her thigh. She wore it with heels, her curled hair in a tight ponytail. “Cynthia just dropped these off for you.” She carried two paper bags, both of them displaying a different designer logo. “Put what you don’t want back into the bag, and I’ll make sure it gets returned.” She set the bags next to the coffee table.
I leaned forward and peeked in one bag, seeing the shirts and jeans in my size. I hated shopping, hated picking out things while a salesman pestered me to try things on and felt inclined to comment on my appearance.
“Anything else I can do while I’m here?” She always adopted the same posture, her hands together at her waist, almost like a robot.
I was in my sweatpants and a shirt, my bare feet on the rug. My arms rested on my thighs as I looked up at her, the words struggling to come to me. “I didn’t know you were divorced.”
Her expression changed, her professional smile falling instantly. Her fingers fidgeted a bit. Now she wasn’t the self-assured person she usually was.
I rose to my feet and faced her, trying to navigate the situation. I was so bad at this shit, so bad at these conversations. When my son was older and needed advice, I wasn’t sure how I would handle that stuff, not when I could barely string a few words together. “I just didn’t know…”
She was the only person who seemed in tune with my thoughts, like she understood what I was trying to accomplish even though everyone else didn’t get me at all. “Yes, we have that in common.”
My hands moved into my pockets. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s been a while now, so I’m fine with it.”
I didn’t know the details because I hadn’t wanted to listen to my brother describe his experience with her out loud. I didn’t want his perceptions. Because if I heard that, I’d have to listen to all the other details I didn’t want to picture.
“It made me realize I don’t know anything about you.” She had access to my home, knew exactly what I liked to eat, knew what size clothing I wore, knew what colors I preferred, knew about my divorce, my kid…and I’d never even cared to learn anything about her. “You know everything about me.”
She gave me a slight smile, her discomfort gone. “It’s my job to know everything about you. That’s how I take care of you.”
“Well, I’d like to know more about you.” Knowing the details of other women’s lives wasn’t important, and I considered those conversations wasted time because they didn’t benefit any situation at all. It was time-consuming, wasted energy, pointless. But I wanted to take the time to know her…because I cared about her. She’d watched me break down more than once, watched tears spill from my eyes, and maybe she was paid to care, but I believed she would care even if she didn’t make a dollar from me.