Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Me: Nova. I just walked in on Turner MASTURBATING and I will never get those last few seconds of my life back. To say I am horrified is BEYOND an understatement. I am so embarrassed I want to cry.
Nova: Oh shit….
Nova: But also: Was it hot?
Me: YES. OBVIOUSLY. Have you SEEN that man? I swear to god, I didn’t know where to look.
Nova: OMG you came home and he immediately went into his room to jerk-off??? He totally wanted to bang you.
Me: Somehow I doubt that.
Nova: Start from the beginning. You get home tonight, go inside, and then….
Me: He goes to his room, I go to mine. But I felt like we were both hanging back? So after about ten minutes, I threw on some sweatpants, got a bottle of wine, and was going to see if he wanted to—I don’t know. Talk and drink?
Nova: …and then…????
Me: And then… Instead of KNOCKING like a NORMAL human with MANNERS, I said ‘knock knock’ then opened his door. And he was in the middle of his bed jerking off.
Nova: Holy. SHIT.
Me: I KNOW. That’s exactly what I said.
Me: But now I want to die.
Nova: No. Now you’re EVEN.
Nova: He saw you in a bra and underwear. You saw his junk—that makes you even.
I hadn’t thought of it that way. I suppose she has a point, but still. It was such an invasion of privacy.
Nova: Did he SEE you?
Me: I think so? He had to have heard me—I literally shouted OH MY GOD before slamming the door.
Me: Now I’m locked in my own bedroom, hiding.
Nova: LOL
Me: What am I supposed to say to him in the morning???
Nova: In my opinion? Nothing.
Nova: You say NOTHING.
turner
. . .
Click.
Snap.
I place the brown block, snapping it into place.
I sigh, stare at the little instruction booklet spread out on the dining room table and try not to think about the fact that last night I was balls-deep in fucking myself with my right hand when Poppy walked in.
I didn’t even hear the door until it was slammed shut.
Click.
Snap.
I shift in my seat and reach for a tiny figurine, my fingers fumbling it twice before I manage to clip his miniscule sword into his palm.
It immediately falls out.
“Same, little dude, same.” I stare at the plastic knight like he’s the only one who understands the wreckage that is my brain.
I slap a flat tile into place harder than necessary.
It’s not like I planned for it to happen.
It’s not like I was purposely pleasuring myself, mid-jerk and at my most vulnerable, so that she’d walk in and find me. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Still, somewhere underneath the humiliation and the swirling thoughts of she cannot live here anymore, there’s a primal part of me that can’t stop replaying it on a loop.
Her breath catching.
Click.
Snap.
I haven’t felt this way in years. Not since Bella, my last girlfriend.
We met sophomore year of college; she was actually from my hometown, but we’d never spoken when we were in high school. Bumped into her at a frat party and we were inseparable after that. We bonded over our affliction to socializing, and our love of poppy-seed muffins.
Bella was comfortable and steady.
Loyal to a fault but also: jealous.
Click.
Another turret piece snaps into place…
Bella had her moments. We had our moments. But things with her had been predictable—relaxed in the way your favorite hoodie is, even after it gets worn and loses shape. She liked her plans detailed and planned far in advance.
What she didn’t like?
My popularity on campus when it became clear that I would be entering the NHL draft our junior year.
It was all downhill the day I submitted my eligibility.
Suddenly, late practices were suspicious. Group projects meant I was cheating. And god forbid I missed a Friday night movie marathon because I had a team meeting—I must be hooking up with someone in the locker room.
Then came the questions. The accusations. The veiled digs about any female student who so much as said my name in class.
She even went through my phone.
Click. Snap.
“There are you.” A familiar voice clears her throat in the doorway. “Thought I would find you here.”
And just like that, my chest gets tight.
I raise my head slowly, afraid of what I might see on her face: Disgust. Revulsion. Dislike.
But it’s none of those.
“Yup. You found me.”
I shift in my seat, holding a tan square piece between my fingers, ready to place it on the castle. It falls to the table so I can give Poppy my attention, hands clasping in my lap beneath the table.
Her hip rests on the doorway for several moments before she enters the room, pulling out a chair across the table and taking a seat, eyes scanning my project.
Doing LEGOs calms my nerves.
Which is why I’m doing them now, despite the fact that my hands feel too big and my thoughts too loud.