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)
“Which one do you hope it is?” I counter, desperate to avoid this conversation.
Before I can answer—or fake a stroke—Poppy strolls in, in one of my hoodies, one my sister definitely recognizes.
She stops. Blinks.
Realizes we’re mid-interrogation, or that something is going down that she wants no part of.
“Uh. Should I come back later?” She begins backtracking out of the room, but my sister stops her.
“Stop right there.”
Poppy halts in her tracks, slowly turning back toward us. “Am I in trouble?”
My heart begins to race, afraid of what my sister is going to say as she drums her fingers on the table. “No. He and I were just having a conversation,” Georgia says sweetly. “You know how it is.”
My roommate creeps farther into the kitchen, going toward the toaster. Opens the cupboard, retrieves a small plate. Grabs a plain bagel and opens it, popping both pieces into the appliance.
I watch.
“Any plans for the day?” Georgia asks, her voice too casual to be actually casual.
Poppy shrugs, staring into the toaster like it holds the meaning of life. “Work stuff and a few errands.”
I tilt my head, squinting at her. “What kind of errands?”
She hesitates. And that’s when I know she doesn’t want to say the thing out loud because she knows I might not like the answer.
“A showing,” she says, fiddling with the edges of her plate, staring into the toaster as if she can cook the bagel quicker with her eyeballs.
Georgia blinks. “Like, for a movie?”
Poppy sighs. “No. For an apartment.”
An apartment.
I knew she had planned to move out eventually—I just didn’t think it would be this soon. She’s got all her shit moved in! It took her days and days to get situated.
Is living down the hall from me so fucking terrible that she wants to pack it all up and move?
I don’t say any of that. Of course I don’t. I just stand there, blinking like a man who’s been sucker punched by a cinnamon raisin bagel.
“How soon?” Georgia asks, ever the instigator.
Poppy shrugs. “It’s just a showing. Could be nothing.”
The silence stretches. Georgia clears her throat, possibly for dramatic effect. “Well. That’s… news.”
Poppy shifts awkwardly, grabbing a butter knife and pretending to care deeply about spreading cream cheese with perfect precision.
“If you…” She clears her throat. “Want to come along, Turner, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
My head jerks up so fast I’m shocked it doesn’t snap clean off.
Go with her? To check out the place she might move into? Like some supportive platonic roomie? Yeah, that doesn’t feel like emotional torture at all.
Still, I hear myself say, “Yeah. Sure.”
Because apparently I hate myself.
Georgia slaps her hand against the table, startling both of us. “God, this is so uncomfortable. I love it.”
I shoot her a glare. “You’re not invited.”
She smirks. “Didn’t say I was. But if you think I’m not enjoying every single second of this, you’ve clearly never met me.”
I sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “What time do we have to leave?”
Poppy checks the clock. “Eleven.”
Current time: nine thirty.
Georgia leans back in her chair, arms crossed, looking way too satisfied. “Aw, look at you two. Going on your little breakup tour of potential heartbreak real estate.”
“Please stop talking,” I grumble.
“Why?” she asks, wide-eyed and innocent. “Watching you two try to pretend like this isn’t slowly killing you is the best entertainment I’ve had in months, and that’s saying a lot, considering the fact I’m dating a guy named Blayke.”
Poppy bites her lip to keep from laughing, which makes everything worse.
“You’re both so emotionally constipated,” Georgia adds. “It’s honestly impressive. Like, are you allergic to communication? Should I get you both a chalkboard and a safe word?”
“Georgia,” I warn.
“What?” She shrugs. “All I’m saying is one of you should probably say something before she signs a lease and you die alone surrounded by your hockey trophies.”
I need my sister to stop talking.
I shoot her a look that could fry her eyebrows clean off. She sips her coffee like it’s tea.
Poppy clears her throat, clearly trying to escape this kitchen with her dignity intact. “I’m going to, uh—eat this in my room so I can start getting dressed.”
I nod robotically, humiliated by my little sister.
Georgia waves at her as she retreats into the hallway. “Have fun pretending you’re not already in love!”
“What is wrong with you?! Seriously!”
“I’m nudging you toward your destiny.”
“That makes no sense.”
She sets down her mug. “Listen. I know you—you don’t have casual sex. You don’t sleep with random women.”
“How do you know?”
Georgia gives me the most dramatic eye roll in sibling history. “Because I know your vibe. You’re a monogamous golden retriever in a defenseman’s body. You don’t do flings. You do forehead kisses and Sunday brunch and Spotify playlists that say ‘thinking of you.’”
“I do not—”
“You brought Sam Simpson a smoothie once because she was sad about her hamster dying.”