Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
2
ZARA
Who is that guy? And why am I still thinking of him when we barely interacted for five minutes? Actually, ‘interacted’ is a bit generous. I introduced myself, and he grunted in response, like I was an annoyance.
To be fair, I was … kind of. I mean, I was in his way, not that it was intentional, but if it had been other people, they would’ve responded kindly. Not him. He was clearly one of those grumpy, brooding types who talked in monosyllables or didn’t talk at all.
I try to chalk up this weird fixation to intrigue. After all, the burn mark on his face is big enough that it’s hard to ignore. The scar was darker than the rest of his skin, and there was even a tight band of scar tissue on the corner of his right eye. I wonder if it’s still painful when the skin stretches.
Ugh, I know. It’s the nurse in me. I can always make such detailed observations in seconds. I hope he didn’t see me stare. Then again, he probably did. He did shrink into his clothes and pull his collar up. God, he probably thought I was one of those people who’d blatantly ask him about it.
My phone rings while I walk toward my car, and I toss my things in the passenger seat before answering. “Mom?”
She sounds a little breathless, probably from her daily run. “Hi, honey. Are you off work?”
“Yup. Just got in my car. I’m dropping by the bookstore real quick and grabbing dinner on the way.”
“What’s dinner?”
“Burrito and quesadilla maybe.”
“You don’t eat like someone in the medical field.”
Laughter bursts out of me. “Mom, I know.”
“You tell your patients to avoid these foods, and yet you consume them like you have a second life.”
I’m still chuckling when I slide the key in and the engine rumbles to life. “Yes, Mom. I’m too tired to make dinner. It’s been a long shift.”
“Yet you’re never too tired to bake cookies and cupcakes and whatever.”
“Baking is my way of destressing. So, why did you really call? I’m sure it’s not to ask for my meals.”
“Oh, your father told me we’re flying to Ferncombe for your birthday. He said it’s a surprise, so don’t tell him I told you.”
I put her on speaker as I shift the gear to drive and drive out of the parking lot. “So, why did you?”
“I wanted to ask where you’d like to eat. He said I should do my research and book the restaurant you like. We both know I’m no good at lying, so I figured why not ask you directly.”
God, my parents are so funny without even trying. “I want something Japanese. I’ll send you the name later.”
“Okay, got it. You have to pretend to look surprised when we get there, okay?”
My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Yes, sure, Mom.”
“Love you, honey. Got to go. Try to add more fruits and veggies to your meals tomorrow. Maybe you can blend them into a smoothie. It’s a healthier breakfast than just bagel and iced coffee.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
God, I love these two. It never fails to amuse me that they always make it a point to celebrate my birthday, which is technically not the actual date I was born.
In fact, it’s the day they decided to adopt me. They always tell me how lucky they are to have me, but I disagree. I’m the one who’s lucky. Finding parents as loving and kind as them? It’s like winning the lottery ten times over.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I groan and release a huge breath, unable to believe I’m coming home to this. With half a dozen paperbacks inside a bag in my arm and a tote on one shoulder, I stand in front of the elevators with a huge “DO NOT USE. FOR REPAIR. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE” in big, bold letters.
The only reason I chose this apartment in the first place was because of the elevator. Walking up and down five flights of stairs every day may sound exciting to my fitness-crazy mom but not to me. I’d rather peel off my nails. Okay, that’s a bit too much, but the point is, I’m too exhausted to even walk to the second floor.
My unit is on the fifth. Just the thought of walking all the way there has me half-convinced that I should check into a hotel instead.
“Why is this happening to me? First, my grocery. Now, no elevator. Is it too late to move? Should I go to the second building on my list? It doesn’t have an elevator, but at least I’ll be on the ground floor. God, I’m so tired. Kill me now, please. Or at least make the elevator work.”
Talking to myself is a weird habit. I know. Dad likes to joke about how unaware I can be of my surroundings, and if he sees someone talking to themselves, he’d run the opposite way.