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)
Dale sniffs the air. “Is it just me or does the couch smell funky?”
Joe and I both conceal our chuckles with coughs. When Dale notices, he smacks Joe. “Gross, man. No way am I paying for it now.”
“You weren’t going to pay for it anyway.” Joe slaps two twenties into his friend’s hand. “Go buy that cute baby of yours something nice and tell her it’s from Uncle Joey.”
Dale the baby has a baby?
Dale rolls his eyes. “She’s four months old. The only things she loves are bright colors and my girlfriend’s tits. Which, honestly, are both awesome.”
We drive back to Joe’s apartment afterward. I tell him he is great for looking after Dale. His concern for the guy shines through.
“He’s a good kid. A responsible one too. I like it when people show up and own up to their shit.”
“High moral ground wasn’t always a part of your charm.” I grin. “Remember when you found a loophole for my condom problem in Spain?”
“My real solution might’ve made you slap me silly. I wanted in that hypothetical condom real bad.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Really?” He smirks. “You wanted into that condom too?”
We both laugh.
“I feel like we’re in a limbo,” he tells me as we slide past familiar scenery I never really paid attention to before. I lived on autopilot, waiting for life to begin when it was already happening.
“We are kind of in a limbo,” I admit.
“Whose fault is that?”
Mine. It is all on me. And because of that, I keep silent. Unlike Dale, I don’t own up or show up where Joe is concerned. I’ve only started doing it with my family. Baby steps, right?
Joe’s nostrils flare. “I think I may be a rat.”
“Excuse me?” I whip my head to look at him.
“A rat. I think I am one.”
“Sorry, but you’re going to have to elaborate here.”
“In the 1950s, a guy named Curt Richter did a series of experiments on rats. It showed the resilience and power of hope. Basically, he threw rats into bucketsful of water and watched them drown. A group of them, he let die. Some took minutes. Some took days. But others, he offered help and support. Just when he felt that the rats were about to give up and give in, he would pull them up, giving them hope, before throwing them back into the bucket. He discovered that his hypothesis was right. Given a glimmer of hope, the rats decided to fight. They swam, mustering whatever energy was left in them to try to survive. I feel like I’m a rat. You show me a sliver of hope, and I jump at it. But I’m done jumping.”
I watch him silently, unsure of what to say.
“I’m not going to wait for you forever.” He speeds ahead, bypassing three cars in front of us. “At some point, I’m just going to drown.”
“I know.”
We order Chinese and eat it on the couch, our feet up on the coffee table. We play Jenga, and he wins. Twice. We have sex on his kitchen counter, on his couch, and in the shower. We talk about the best horror flicks ever made, and we’re in complete agreement that Get Out, despite being fairly new, is the creepiest we’ve ever seen. Then we watch it together, just to make sure we don’t want to change our minds. We don’t.
When we go to bed, I wrinkle my nose and ask, “How many women have you . . . ahm, entertained in your bedroom?”
He looks upward, pretending to start counting them with his fingers. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“About thirty-five,” he deadpans. “Some were entertained more than others, but almost all tried to buy a ticket for the next show.”
“Manwhore.” I gag.
“I prefer sexually liberated individual.” He yanks me to him, planting a kiss on my lips. “Don’t pout. Sex is a great distraction. It’s a bulletproof way to forget about your worries.”
“What are you so worried about?” I play with the elastic of his sweatpants. He’s not wearing a shirt. We both kind of gave up on the idea of clothes in his apartment. They serve no purpose, seeing as we have sex on an hourly basis.
“You,” he says, clapping his hand over mine and stopping me from lowering his sweatpants. “This whole thing tastes like goodbye, and I don’t like it.”
I lick my lips. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m still looking at colleges in Boston.”
“What’s stopping you from moving back here?”
“What’s stopping you from moving to San Francisco?” I counter.
“Nothing,” he says matter-of-factly, surprising me. “San Francisco has docks, so I’ll have a day job. It has publishing houses. It has you. But no one’s invited me. That’s my holdup.”
This is my in. My chance to tell him that I want him by my side. But the fear is paralyzing. I’m scared of what our cursed relationship might result in. What if he dies too? I won’t be able to survive. I won’t. And now that Mom is dead, and Dom is dead, I just don’t want to lose him. I’m irrationally scared something’ll happen to Joe. Maybe because I know he is my only shot at happiness, I can’t afford anything happening to him. Ever. Even if—illogically—giving him up means I’ll never be happy.