Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
"What is it?" I asked, watching as he half-turned his head toward me.
"Inedible," he decided, making an unexpected laugh/snort escape me.
"That sounds about right."
"How do people get paid to steam three sprigs of asparagus and boil a pathetic piece of chicken, drizzle it with some yellow crap on it, and call it a meal?"
"It was Teddy's instructions. To, ah, keep me thin," I admitted, not knowing why I was unloading on him when I had kept it all to myself for so many years.
"You're shitting me." He almost seemed, I don't know, outraged. For me.
"there were... many rules about our marriage."
"For you," he specified.
"Yes, for me."
"Did he force you onto a scale every week or some shit?"
"Not every week. Only when he suspected I was getting bigger."
"Jesus Christ. And if you did. Get bigger," he clarified. "What then? Did he force you to go on a hunger strike?"
"He gave me a week to get back to where I was."
"Or?"
"I never failed," I admitted, feeling almost ashamed of myself. For never having a spine enough to say no. Enough guts to form a rebellion.
"Jenny..." he started, then trailed off, shaking his head. "You deserve every bit of this," he said instead of whatever he was going to originally, waving a hand to the counter behind him where half a dozen reusable bags were situated.
Reusable bags.
Smith was the kind of man who kept reusable bags in his car for impromptu shopping trips. That was... an interesting little fact to learn.
I found it charming.
"I got everything you requested. And more."
"I want to toss this, but it would probably be good for the staff to think you're simply not eating. You can stash some of the junk in the guest room with me."
"Sounds like a plan," I agreed, moving over toward the bags, slowly taking the contents out, spreading them over the counter.
Chips - plain, sour cream & onion, Fritos, Doritos. More candy bars. Sweets - Devil Dogs, Yodels, Twinkies.
"I haven't had a Twinkie since... I was maybe fifteen."
"You're overdue then," he said with a genuine smile as he took the box, ripping the end open, and handing me a spongy yellow cake in a crinkly wrapper.
"Do you eat like this?"
"On a day-to-day basis?" he asked, reaching for a Twinkie himself. Not, I didn't think, because he actually had a sudden craving, but because he wanted me to feel more comfortable eating one. "No. Many nights, we order in at the office. Otherwise, I will throw something together."
"Like... cook? Or make a sandwich?"
"Either."
"I never learned."
"To cook?" he clarified.
"Yeah. My parents' idea of cooking was to take something from a can and throw it into a microwave. And I went right from them to," I stopped, waving a hand out.
"It's a good skill to have. It's nice to be able to depend on yourself. You can learn eventually."
"Did you hear anything today?"
"I watched the senator's press conference. Did you catch it?"
"No. Should I have?"
"I think it's best you avoid the news as a whole right now. But the Cliffs-notes is - he is using this to push a more strict sentencing for violent criminals, more use of capital punishment, stronger rights to use Castle Law."
"He's using his son's death as a political angle." It was half a question, half a declaration.
"Yeah. He's a prince among men. The other news cycles are just saying it's a tragedy, the man is still on the run, nothing to worry about. I think they are going to take away the rent-a-cop tomorrow. You might want to prepare yourself for visitors now. Your social circle will want to get inside here."
"The curiosity is morbid."
"Yes. And predictable," he agreed. "Your best bet is to just... get teary-eyed if they press. The less you repeat things, the better. You want to make sure nothing ever changes. You remember that game in elementary school where one person repeats a phrase to another, then the other to the next, so on and so forth until the end where the sentence didn't even resemble the original one. You don't need it getting around that Sandy Silverspoon said she has it on good, personal information that you said that the man had blue eyes or some shit, and some innocent guy gets locked up."
"Right," I agreed, nodding as the Twinkie in my mouth started to melt without any actual chewing on my part. "Keep things vague."
"Except with the cops, yes. Vague is best. And if anyone is particularly pushy, go ahead and be dramatic. Go to stand and get faint. Start getting upset. Any excuse for the staff to step in and shoo the guests out. Which they will be happy to do because they want to seem important right now."
"I wish we could keep them out a while longer. I mean, not to sound whiny. Poor little rich girl, right?"