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 doesn’t leave his hotel room. He writes nonstop. I find an artist to make Mom’s gravestone and start doing research on universities in both California and Massachusetts. I bookmark them online and send them to Dad and Donna.
I spend my evenings with Joe. We go to watch a live band, we eat seafood, and we catch a movie. There’s an underlying weirdness between us, but neither of us points that out. He treats me like I’m his baby sister. I treat him like he is a surly tourist. The week zips by fast. Too fast. A part of me grieves my last night with Joe. Another part of me is relieved. I’m tired of waiting for the clock to hit seven every day. Tired of counting back the hours, and the minutes, and the seconds until I see him. I’m exhausted. Of loving him in secret. Of pretending like I’m okay with what we are. With what we’re not.
And it hits me, on my way to Joe’s hotel. What am I doing? I have no business applying to schools in Massachusetts. If I stay in touch with him, he is going to detonate whatever is left of my heart into millions of microscopic pieces.
It is Joe’s last evening. Tomorrow morning, he boards a plane back to Boston. We’ve both decided we’ll order room service and stay in. When I arrive at his room, the food is already there, covered by silver cloches. Joe looks extra handsome. He’s clean shaven, his hair still damp from the shower.
The place is a huge mess, just like his apartment. I like it. The chaos. How he thrives in it. I drop my backpack on his unmade bed and park my hands on my waist. “The room’s never going to recover from your visit. You have a talent for ruining everything you touch.”
“Same could be said about you,” he deadpans. “Have a seat.”
He cracks a bottle of wine open, then pours both of us glasses.
“Wine?” I feel my eyebrows rising. “Who are you, and what did you do to Joe?”
“I’m his evil twin, and he is currently tied up and gagged in the basement,” he answers without missing a beat.
“Oh, well.” I shrug. “What doesn’t kill you . . .”
He laughs. “Figured we’re not eighteen anymore. Might as well act our age.”
“Let’s not. Normal is so boring,” I reply.
He hands me one of the glasses. It’s a white wine. It smells fruity and oaky. I try the whole swirling and sniffing it thing but start cackling halfway through. So does Joe. Our eyes meet.
“Normal is boring,” he muses. “You’re right. Let’s never be pretentious old fucks.”
I nod. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Are we sure about getting drunk together?” I ask, taking a seat in front of the small table for two. I’m only joking. If this week has proved anything, it is that he doesn’t have a lick of interest in me. Which is fine. Great. I don’t want him to. Every time Joe and I reunite, the world around us shatters. And if he is not an option anymore . . . well, at least I won’t hate myself quite as much for not acting on my feelings toward him.
He is still standing up. He is looking around the room, like there’s something he wants to show me but doesn’t know how to broach the subject.
“Ever?” he asks.
“That’s my name.”
“I finished the book.”
“You . . . what?”
He crouches down to my eye level. His eyes are twinkling.
“It’s done. I wrote The End. I even used a different font, to be fancy and shit.”
“Not Times New Roman, I hope,” I say, which is a dumb thing to say, but also so us. Dom never would have gotten it. But Joe does.
He grins. “Cambria.”
I shoot up and fling my arms over him, squeaking. Wine sloshes over his shirt. We both ignore it. This is the best news. This book has been in the making for seven years. He finished it in a few short weeks. I cannot even begin to imagine what he must feel like. Even if it doesn’t get published. Even if it sits on his shelf to collect dust. He still did it.
But then I know exactly what it feels like. Because I designed Mom’s gravestone. I have finally created.
Joe pats my lower back, in a that’s-enough gesture. I disconnect from him, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Touching wasn’t a part of the deal. Not since he came here to San Francisco.
“It’s just a first draft.” His hands linger around my waist, but he doesn’t hold me. “I’ll have to spend the next few weeks polishing it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Now you have something to polish. I’m really proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I know he means it, and it makes the occasion so much sweeter.