Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Lizzy: Okay, but tell me why you were using a question mark. Has this topic been up for debate? Inquiring minds want to know…
Brodie: No! It’s never been up for debate.
Reed pulls back and resumes his position against the counter.
“Dude. I’m impressed.”
“That’s where it ends.”
Reed scrunches his mouth up, considering my options. “When did you last see her?”
“This morning.”
“Doin’ what?”
“I was coming home, and she was leaving for class. She dropped a bunch of her shit.”
Reed blinks at me. “What do you mean, she dropped a bunch of her shit?”
“Like, she tripped or something, and all her stuff fell to the ground, and I helped her pick it up.”
Reed gives me a blank stare. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes, why?”
“Dude, are you a fucking idiot?”
Yes?
“What?” I ask defensively. “Speak English so I can understand what you’re trying to say to me right now.”
“She dropped her shit on purpose, bro.” Reed smacks me in the arm. “How dumb are you?”
“Pretty dumb.”
“So what happened after you helped her pick up her stuff?”
I shrug. It’s not hard to remember. The entire five-minute exchange will be burned into my fucking brain for as long as I live. Her face gazing at me—those big brown eyes and the freckles across her nose…
“Hello?” My roommate nudges me. “What the hell happened after you helped her pick up her stuff?”
“She thanked me, then she walked to class.”
Reed groans and pulls a hand down his face.
And here I thought Sully was the dramatic one in this house…
“Why are you making those noises?”
“Because, dude, you missed the golden opportunity to walk her to class.”
“But I had to get my notes.”
“Who gives a shit about your notes? We’re trying to get you laid!”
We’re not trying to get me laid, but whatever. No sense in arguing.
“For the sake of the argument, let’s say she did want me to walk her to class, and I didn’t. So now what?”
“Now you can text her.” He slaps the phone in my hand, almost sending it flying. “Don’t be a pussy. Do it.”
Agree. “But what do I say?”
“I don’t fucking know, say anything. This isn’t rocket science. She’s a chick. They love this crap.”
“Tell me what to say.” I hold the phone so he can take another look at the text chain, and his mouth moves as he reads, his head shaking as he formulates a message for me to send Lizzy.
“What if you ask her about painting her room? Ask if she’s done it yet.”
“Oh, snap. Good idea.”
I type out a message to Lizzy and hit send.
Good. This is good stuff.
Reed stuffs chicken in his face, watching me so intently that it makes me uncomfortable. It’s obvious he wants an update and plans to stick around until he gets one. Too bad I’m not interested in giving him a play-by-play.
I exit the kitchen to the sound of his protests.
Lizzy: As a matter of fact, I have NOT painted my room yet. It’s more daunting than I was expecting LOL
She includes at least six laughing-crying emoji.
Tell her you’ll help her paint.
But you barely have time to take a shit, let alone paint a bedroom.
Bull-fucking-shit. You have plenty of time.
Just say it.
Do it.
Brodie: I could probably lend a hand if you needed help.
Lizzy: I DO seem to recall you saying you could, but I didn’t want to be a pest and remind you ha ha
Brodie: When were you thinking of getting it done?
Lizzy: Idk, this weekend?
Brodie: I have a game Saturday, but I’m around all day Sunday.
Brodie: Actually, I have a meeting on Sunday morning, but after that, I’m free.
We always have a post-game team meeting the morning after, watching the game footage to study the plays. Hits. Misses.
Mistakes.
Lizzy: Sunday it is. What snacks should I have for you?
Brodie: You don’t have to get me snacks.
Lizzy: I know I don’t have to—I want to.
Brodie: I… eat whatever.
Lizzy: That’s SO not helpful.
Brodie: Sorry but it’s true, I’ll eat anything.
Lizzy: Okay. I’ll figure it out…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIZZY
“…this one wall, right?”
Huh?
What did he just say?
“I’m sorry. What?”
Brodie pauses, swiveling his body so he can look at me. “I asked if you only wanted this one wall painted.”
Oh.
“Yeah, just this one wall—don’t you think?”
Everything we’ve done has been by hand, with brushes—no rollers—his long brushstrokes have been a lifesaver, and I can’t imagine having to do it myself.
I’d make a giant mess
I’d get bored
I probably wouldn’t finish.
With Brodie here, we’ve gotten most of the accent wall complete—and by we, I mean he.
Ha!
“Then we’re almost done.” His deep voice has been sending shock waves to my core since the second he stepped over my threshold, and thank god he hasn’t been able to look at me ’cause I’ve done nothing but gawk at him since he picked up his paintbrush.
It's warm enough outside to open the window, the slight breeze circulating the air in the room and drying the walls.