Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
He grunts and begins limping back to his cabin. But he doesn’t say I have to leave so I figure that it’s OK if I go with him.
“I’m no trouble,” I promise. “I’ll just have a good meal and be on my way. I don’t even need anything fancy. Not that I would object to a good lasagna right now. That’s like the best comfort food there is. I mean, pasta and cheese. It just doesn’t get better than—”
He stops walking again.
“Right. Maybe you just have some peanut butter sandwiches. Those are good too.” He’s frowning at me. I haven’t even gotten to his cabin yet and I’ve already overstayed my welcome. I’m not very good at this runaway stuff. “I’ll take anything you’d give me, and I’ll be quiet too.”
That last part seems to satisfy him, and he nods as if we’ve come to some agreement. It figures I’d leave home only to run to another man who just wants me to be seen and not heard. Not that it matters. Clearly, I’m not staying with him. I’m just crashing in his cabin for a couple of hours. Get some food, maybe use the toilet.
I open my mouth to tell him that I’ll be out of here soon when I spot the cabin. It’s a real log cabin, right here in the middle of the forest. A puff of smoke is coming from the chimney and the windows are lit up with light from the inside. It looks like the place is welcoming me and for some crazy reason, I feel like I’ve found home. Something in me aches at the realization.
The porch is messy and cluttered, but not dirty. It just has various appliances stacked around, like the mountain man can’t be bothered to go through it all.
“Why do you have so much stuff? Are you one of those people that digs through trash and finds priceless antiques and sells them? That would explain why you were buying that car. But there was nothing valuable inside of it, trust me. I know valuable things.”
I realize I’m talking again and shut up. He’s already made it clear that he doesn’t want me interrupting his peace and quiet.
He steps inside the cabin. It’s just as messy and cluttered as the outside. But as I survey it, I begin to see a pattern of tiny groupings. I think he’s sorting the items though it’s hard for me to figure out exactly what they have in common. It all seems random to me. Maybe he’s grouping it by how much money he can get for the things.
“Bathroom,” he grunts and leads me down a small hall that’s also cluttered with more things. The space is even smaller when I’m trailing after him. His shoulders are so big and broad. Everything about the man is and for some reason, that makes me feel safe.
Unlike the rest of the house, the bathroom isn’t cluttered, and I use the toilet quickly. When I go to wash my hands, I frown at my reflection in the mirror. I’m covered in grime, and my long hair looks matted and wild. Not like the princess I’m supposed to be.
There’s a linen closet beside the huge glass shower stall. I debate taking a shower but decide against it since I’d just have to put my dirty clothes back on again. So instead, I grab some washcloths and do my best to clean myself. I wash my face and braid my hair, fighting another wave of dizziness.
I scrunch my toes in the beat-up sneakers I’m wearing that are too tight. As soon as I was out of New York, I stopped at a thrift store and ditched my designer outfit. No point in calling attention to myself.
When I’m done, I search the bathroom. I’m looking for proof of a wife or girlfriend. The man may lack communication skills, but he’s attractive in that rugged way. More than that, he’s kind with big hands. I don’t know what it is about them. I’ve never paid too much attention to anyone’s hands.
Before I can muse about that, there’s a faint scratching sound at the door. I finally give up my stealthy search that has revealed nothing more than the fact that the guy owns a shampoo-conditioner-body-wash combo. Clearly, the man is not one for extravagance.
Princess bumps into the doorframe then pauses and takes a step back. After a second, she strolls in and heads for the litter box.
I leave to find my mountain man, wandering again through the piles of stuff. Maybe he’s not one of those online sellers. Maybe he’s a hoarder and the things comfort him. The thought that he’s surrounded by things and not people makes me sad for him.
Moving through the living room, I follow my nose. He’s cooking something. Something that smells better than the gas station hotdog I had three days ago.