Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 84344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I’m thankful he has a business call on the way back to the house, and he doesn’t press me. I get out of the SUV, grabbing my golf clubs that Michael kept at his house, and walk back into the house. The cold air hits me right away. Mac meets me at the front door as I walk into the garage and put my clubs down.
Walking back into the house, I take my phone out and call Alex. It’s just so natural to call her all the time. I’m expecting her not to answer for some reason, so when she does, it throws me off. “Um, hello?” she says after I don’t answer her the first time.
“It’s me,” I say, my stomach filled with nerves.
“I know.” She laughs. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m wondering if you are coming home for dinner.” Walking to the kitchen and grabbing a water bottle. “Or do you have another date?”
“Nope, all free tonight,” she says, again avoiding talking about her date. “I have a fuck ton of things to do before we leave,” she says, and I hear guys talking in the background. “I have to go. I’m headed to a meeting.”
“With your boyfriend?” The words come out of my mouth, and I close my eyes as soon as they do.
“You are so fixated on this boyfriend.” She laughs out. “Don’t you have other things to do?”
“Why the secrecy?” I ask, and I can hear the voices in the background getting louder.
“Okay, got to go. I’m getting looks from my boss,” she says and hangs up. I look down at the phone, staring at the picture on my screen saver.
“Does she have a boyfriend, Mac?” I turn to look at the dog, who just sits there looking up at me. “Did she tell you anything?” She just tilts her head to the side, probably telling me that I’m an idiot.
I pull up Michael’s name on my phone and send him a text.
Me: Hypothetically speaking.
I press send and see the bubble come up with three dots, and then the phone buzzes in my hand.
Michael: Okay.
Me: If some girl told you she was out on a date, how would you feel?
Michael: Considering I’m married, is this woman my wife?
I groan when he answers, so I just dial his number, and he answers after two rings. “Hello,” he whispers. “One sec, I’m putting Bianca down.” I hear rustling from the covers, and then he comes back. “Okay, why the fuck is my wife going on a date?” he demands, aggravated and cranky.
“Why would it be your wife?” I answer him. “It’s not your wife.” Getting just a touch frustrated because the way he answered with his crankiness is how I feel, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Well, then, why would I even care?” I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase?”
There is no way to cut to the chase. “Okay, let’s say a friend of yours.” I start talking. “Before you met Jillian and you lived happily ever after, yada yada yada.” He starts to laugh. “One of your friends who is a girl tells you she was on a date.”
“Okay,” he says, paying close attention.
“She tells you she was on a date.” My leg starts to bounce up and down. “Is it normal to be pissed?”
“No.” He doesn’t even take a minute to think about it.
“But what if she’s a good friend?” I ask him, my finger tapping the counter at the same time my leg goes up and down. “And you are worried about her.”
“Do you want to date this good friend of yours?” he asks me, and my whole body stops shaking, and I want to scoff at him.
“No,” I say, knowing full well that I can never go there.
“Then it’s not normal,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Fine, that’s all,” I say. “I’ll call you later.” Hanging up the phone, I let my head hang. The phone buzzes from the counter, and I see it’s Michael.
Michael: Are you sure you don’t want to date her?
My fingers answer right away.
Me: Yes.
I press send before I delete it and write maybe or no, I’m not sure. I get up, walking upstairs, and stop when I walk past her room. Her bed is made, and I know something is up with her. She never ever makes the bed. Like ever. Her excuse is always I’m going to sleep here tonight, so why clean it to mess it up.
I need a nap, I think to myself, walking back into the room and seeing my bed still a mess. I throw myself on top of the covers and look out the window. I grab my phone, and I call the only person I know who won’t try to analyze me.