Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
He bites down a grin, hitching a shoulder up. “Call me Peter Pan.”
“You should be in the hotel, working.” I keep talking to distract myself from the fact I am on a train right now. And it’s moving fast, approaching another station, where someone could be under the tracks. I’m hyperaware of each breath coming in and out of my body.
“Because I need new experiences to write about, and as far as this one goes, it’s a pretty damn memorable one.”
I take a deep breath. “My breath might smell of vomit.”
“Sweetheart.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Nothing smells as bad as you did the night we went to the junkyard.”
I swat his chest and laugh. He kisses the top of my (clean and shampooed) head. “Missed you, kiddo.”
Missed me as what? A friend? A muse? A future sister-in-law? The love of his life? I have no idea where I stand with him, and I don’t want to disrupt the fragile peace we have.
I bury my face in his chest. Inhale his scent. God, I missed him. He smells exactly like he did all those years ago. Ocean spray, male, and darkness. The undercurrent of sweetness. The boy I love.
“I can show you around,” I murmur into his shirt. “You know . . . for research.”
“All right.” He gives me a slow, teasing smile full of promise. “For research.”
TWENTY-SIX
It takes me a few minutes to gather myself and think about where I want to take Joe. I decide against the wharf. Joe works at the docks. The sight of an ocean, no matter how broad and blue, is anyone else’s equivalent of a laptop screen or a calendar. It’s his job. I would take him to a museum or the Golden Gate Bridge, but not only has he already been to the tourist attractions, but it is also about the way he and I do things. We always take the path less traveled.
And so, I decide our first stop is going to be my house.
“You’re making me meet the parents?” He shoves his hands into his front pockets, taking in my street through hooded eyes. “This is the worst date I’ve ever not been on.”
The reminder that it isn’t, and never will be, a date stings. The truth is, I have no idea what we are right now. Friends? Brothers-in-arms? Grievers? Acquaintances? He is obviously over me—he had a threesome. Maybe one of the women he had it with is his girlfriend. Add to that the fact that after the last time we had sex, he didn’t want to hear from me . . .
We’re walking shoulder to shoulder. Well, more like my shoulder to his waist, he is so tall.
“You’re not meeting anyone. Stay here.” I shove him away from the little gate leading to my entrance.
I unlock my door, then slam it before he can peek inside. I rush to collect a six-pack of beer that belongs to Renn—he is going to kill me when he finds out—and some snacks from the pantry. I shove everything into one of Donna’s reusable supermarket bags. When I get out, Joe is exactly where I left him. He is even wearing the same bored-with-your-shit expression. My heart thuds.
“I can see the six-pack from here.” He points at the bag with the hand that holds a cigarette. “Are you pegging me for a cheap date?”
“As you said, it is not a date. And I need a car for where I want to take you.” I round Dad’s emergencies-only ancient Buick, which is parked on the street. I shove my version of picnic food into the trunk.
There’s a Dom-shaped cloud above our heads, but neither of us acknowledges it. I think we’re both asking ourselves the same questions—what would he have thought about this scene if he were alive? Would he hate that we’re together, even as friends? Is what we’re doing wrong? Bad? Immoral? Should we even care?
Joe cares either way. He cares, because in some sense, he will always be his big brother’s shoulder to lean on. The strong one. The one who gave up things so that Dom could have them.
Joe flicks his half-smoked cigarette sideways. “I know what you’re thinking. There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing right now.”
My gaze swings to him, and I bet my eyes are full of shock. “I just don’t want you to regret this.”
I slide into the driver’s seat. He takes the passenger seat and buckles up. “I’m never going to regret you.”
“How are you handling things?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Some days are better than others. But the bad days are getting to be few and far between. I go to therapy, because . . . well, why the fuck not? All the cool kids are doing it now. And I live my life the way I think Dom would have wanted me to. I think that’s the best we can do under the circumstances. Not let death dictate life for the living. What about you?”