Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
I checked my phone on my nightstand. The music app wasn’t on. I scrambled to my feet in my oversized sweatshirt and dug for my Walkman in my backpack, but it was turned off. Ugh. If I didn’t find the source of the song soon, it was going to wake Mom up.
Everybody dance now!
I raced to my window, flinging it open and slapping my hands over the sill, poking half my body out. What I saw underneath made my heart fall apart like alphabet letters on a fridge, scattering into pieces at the bottom of my stomach.
It was Row, clad in sweatpants with a teal jazz design, a yellow headband on his forehead, and a colorful windbreaker three sizes too small he must’ve borrowed from Dylan. His phone was hooked up to a speaker, jamming out one of my favorite nineties songs.
I rubbed my eyes, blinking the cobwebs off them. Nope. He was still there. Looking like he had gotten tangled in every item in Nicki Minaj’s closet.
He appeared to be a list of things: hot, ridiculous, charming, adorable, and completely out of place. My eyes stung and I couldn’t breathe. All the jealousy and soul-numbing pain I had bottled up the other night when I’d found out he’d dated Allison Murray dissipated into mist, leaving my body.
“Well?” Row glared at me in his Richard Simmons gear, running in place as the song continued playing. He looked supremely unhappy about the situation, tossing a still-lit cigarette butt on the ground in a huff. I bit down a laugh. “You gonna come down here and run, or what, Dot?”
He had done this for me?
He had come here at six twenty in the morning to drag me out for a run?
“Row, what are you doing?” I balanced my ass over my windowsill, shaking my head in fascination. The smile on my face was so big and wide, it threatened to split my cheeks.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” His frown deepened. “Being fucking delightful and helping you overcome your fear.”
“Why?”
“Got my reasons. Come down.”
Running had not been on my agenda today. Or…you know, ever, after the horrific incident on his property the other day.
“Rain check.” I clutched a hand to my heart, just to make sure it didn’t beat out of my rib cage. “Too anxious.”
“Gonna be right here with you.”
“Might get another panic attack.”
“Brought an inhaler right here with me.” He patted his pocket.
“I’m out of shape.”
“False. Your shape is fucking delicious. It’s the rest of you I have a problem with. Next.”
“What if I fall again?” I choked out.
“You won’t,” he barked out impatiently.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ll always catch you.” He threw his hands out, exasperated, as if the mere idea revolted him. “When have I ever let you take the hit for something, Dot?”
Now that I thought about the question…never. Grumpiness aside, I could always count on Row. To give me a job, drive me around, fix my problems…
Still, this wasn’t a problem. This was straight-up PTSD. He couldn’t get into my brain and rewire it.
“Row, I’m…I…” I covered my face, heaving and feeling like an idiot. “I just can’t.”
He turned off the music and set the speaker on the ground, shoving it sideways with the tip of his sneakers.
“Who told you that? Not only can you, but you do. You’ve done your own thing ever since you were eighteen. You’re talented, smart, independent, and a badass; most importantly, you’re your father’s daughter, and you know this was his last wish. That’s the reason you can’t fall asleep.” He pointed at me with his long, thick finger. “Because you’re not keeping your promise to him, and it’s killing you. So get your ass down here, and let’s keep some promises.”
“Argh.” I hung my head between my shoulders, white-knuckling the windowsill. “Stop making sense and go back to offending people. It’s so much easier to shut you down that way.”
“I fully intend to offend you throughout this whole ordeal. Also”—he readjusted the headband on his forehead, slapping it against his skin—“you know you want the entire town to see me running around looking like John Fonda.”
“John Fonda?”
“You know. The male Jane Fonda.”
Laughter fizzed in my chest, bubbling up my throat. “Baby, you wish you had her thighs.”
“She wishes she had my thighs,” he countered.
Our eyes met. He was smirking. That lopsided smile hit me like a rusty dagger straight into the heart.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get ready.” He pushed his sleeves up, lighting himself another French cigarette. “Coffee’s on you when we reach Main Street.”
“I hate you.” I bumped the back of my head against the window frame.
“Right back at ya. And, Dot?” He tipped his head up to look at me, and for the first time since we’d both moved away, I felt like I saw him, really him. No masks. No bravado. No quips. Just Old Row.