Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t he be? Oh! Right. Nah, don’t worry ‘bout that,” Jimmy quickly says, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. “I talked him out of droppin’ from the pageant like a big whiny baby. We had a … heart-to-heart, you can say. Yeah … let’s call it a heart-to-heart. The guy’s not as bad as he seems.”
“Really? So Anthony’s still in?”
“You bet your ass he is. He and I go way back. Ups and downs since we were children. Shouldn’t be causin’ any more problems.”
“Oh, wow.” I wonder if it would be premature to thank him. “I guess if we can keep him and Dean from jumping at each other’s throats, we might have a successful event after all.”
“I set him on track for you guys. Won’t have to worry.” Jimmy lets out a sigh, then turns contemplative. “Y’know, life is so dang strange, the cards we’re dealt. We spend so much time focusing on the fun day-to-day stuff in our lives, we forget to acknowledge the very real shit goin’ on under our noses … the hard stuff. You know what I mean, man?”
In a dark recess of my mind, I hear a vase shattering—the vase that shattered before Noah showed up the other day to do my interview. I blamed it on Porridge. Swept the shards under a table in the front entryway.
But it wasn’t my sweet, excitable dog that broke it.
It was my mom.
“We all think we got it the worst,” Jimmy goes on, “then you hear how bad someone else has got it, and you think, ‘You know what? Maybe things aren’t so bad.’ Anthony’s got some real shit. I hope he sorts it out.”
“Me, too,” I say, still thinking about my parents this morning and all the flying pillows.
“Anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time,” says Jimmy. “You’d better head out. My mama’s new assistant should be out there already. He’ll clue you in on the rest.”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “You mean Malcolm?”
“Yep, you gotta deal with him today. I heard he’s in a real mood since my mama brought him on. Phew, bet she’s runnin’ him ragged. Probably regrets agreeing to being her event coordinator guy. Once upon a time, he hated my guts. But also once upon a time, he was tryin’ to steal my man out from under my nose. Well, that was also my mama’s fault. Never mind, my head’s everywhere today except for where it needs to be. Hey, isn’t Malcolm basically your ex, sort of?” He grimaces at that. “Shoot, sorry. I just keep ruinin’ your day worse and worse, huh?”
Chapter 14
Cole
Dean sits in a cream-colored armchair by the front window overlooking a flowerbed and a statue of a naked cherub with curly hair preparing an arrow to fire—a statue I was insisted twice is not Cupid. In front of him on a slightly different maroon-upholstered armchair sits Anthony, whose phone died and who has nothing to occupy his mind except the sight of a peculiar plant with spotted leaves that look like thousands of eyes staring right back at him. Neither have said a word to each other except for an obligatory, “Hey,” when we first arrived here at the McPhersons’.
I’m standing a few paces away by a bookshelf, where at first I was busying myself scanning through the titles, but have since lost interest when I recognized none, and am now leaning against the wall under a painting of an old lady, gnawing on my lip.
The tension in the room is wire tight.
I wish someone would say something.
That someone comes in the form of TJ, the family’s son and my former schoolmate, who appears at the entrance to the study. He’s a charming guy my age with a slender build, short styled hair, and permanently sleepy eyes. At least that’s how I see him. Ever since our high school days, I always felt like TJ could be someone I could either lounge with for hours being lazy or scale the side of a mountain. He’s someone I never really got to know, always seeing him like an untouchable treasure of our small town—or at the very least our graduating class. Most of the rich families exude that vibe whether they mean to or not. Even the Strongs at times.
“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he says. “Malcolm had to step out earlier, but he should be back any minute. Can I get you guys something to drink? Water? Coffee? Raspberry sweet tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” says Dean—at the same time Anthony says, “I’ll take a sweet tea if you—” Then they both go silent, look at each other, and Anthony revises his response: “Nah, I’m good.”
TJ seems to sense the tension and wisely turns away from it, facing me. “What about you, Cole?”