Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“We’re friends.”
“I see. Well, if you’re friends and you both want more, it will happen.”
“It’s not that simple, Mom.”
“Sure, it is. When the right one comes along, you’ll find a way to make it work. I know you, Blake. You can be extremely persuasive and charming. Just like your dad. Speaking of Dad…he wants to buy new Jet Skis for the lake.”
“Oh, yeah?” I settled deeper into the sofa and happily followed the change in topic.
I tried to, anyway. My mind was spinning. Again. I seemed to be on a fucking mental roller coaster lately. Who could blame me? Finding out that my mom and my ex had chatted on the phone like old buddies was…weird. However, my mom’s intuitive side rattled me too.
Yes, there was someone else. But it was complicated.
Not hopeless, though.
I used to think that being out and honest was a fast ticket to isolation. I was beginning to realize that probably wasn’t true. Sure, my parents might be surprised to find out that I was into men and actually had a big fucking crush on one, but I didn’t think they’d cut me out of their lives. Same with my friends.
Maybe there’d be an adjustment phase…maybe not. Funny enough, I was less concerned with perception now than I was even a month ago. Mom was right about me. In my day-to-day life, I was a tenacious problem solver with good instincts. At this moment, my instincts told me to keep Asher close and stick to the script. And that was what I was going to do.
Asher
The Script Club met every other Sunday night at six p.m. sharp to discuss important house business…like the menu for our official bimonthly dinners and whose turn it was to go buy toilet paper. As acting secretary, it was my duty to establish an itinerary and record the minutes. Okay, I admit that I put an unnecessary amount of time and effort into my self-appointed position, but I was a stickler for appropriate shows of formality and let’s be honest, was a club really a club without a secretary?
Who else would keep track of topics, guide discussions, and record our every interaction? If it wasn’t for me, we’d waste a lot of time talking about our respective days in the lab or on campus. It was my job to keep everyone on track and on schedule.
Not so much tonight.
I couldn’t concentrate. First and foremost, not everyone was present. Cody and Topher were both missing. Cody had a good excuse. He lived with his rock-star boyfriend in West Hollywood and only sporadically attended meetings, but he was a close friend of ours, so he was always included.
Topher, on the other hand, never missed meetings. The Script Club was his idea. The weekend before we all became roommates, we’d met at a coffee shop to discuss moving day. Yes, it was the same occasion where I’d first laid eyes on the extraordinarily handsome Blake, who happened to have had a short liaison with Topher, but I wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about Topher and his brilliant suggestion to stay connected and do some roommate bonding.
We used these meetings to plan bowling outings, movie marathons, barbecues, and corn hole contests. And of course, we discussed practical items, like whose turn it was to buy coffee or to ask Mrs. Norris next door to please pick up her precious poodle’s poop from our front lawn.
We acknowledged that even though we shared a house, went to the same university, and in some cases worked at the same place, we were busy men. It was easy to get caught up with research and forget that connecting with friends was equally as important.
I fully understood that life had changed for Topher. But when he’d first mentioned that Simon had bought a house nearby and asked him to move in with him, Topher had emphatically assured us that he was a devoted founding member of the club and would strive to attend all meetings and dinners…even after he no longer lived here.
But Topher still lived here and he was never late. So where the heck was he?
I glanced at my watch irritably before tucking my iPad under my arm and pacing the length of the area rug. Again.
“Do you think he’s okay? Topher is always the first to arrive anywhere,” Holden commented anxiously from his corner of the fabulous red sofa facing the brick fireplace.
Tommy glanced up from his cell as he sank into the sofa cushions opposite Holden. “He’s not technically late yet. He still has five minutes to—”
“He’s not coming,” George announced, striding into the room with his cape billowing behind him.
“Not coming?” I stopped in my tracks and furrowed my brow. “That’s—is he all right?”
George perched on his favorite leather chair in the corner and nodded. “Yeah, he’s fine. Simon forgot it was a meeting night. He took Toph out for a surprise dinner and invited his grandparents. Toph sounded kind of frantic, but I told him not to worry about it. You should be receiving a text any—”