Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 116231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
twenty-four
Kylie
The elevator doors open and I step out, a canvas bag around my shoulder with the bouquet of flowers I just bought at the farmers market wrapped in brown paper in my arms. I pull out my keys and walk into the apartment.
Walking straight to the kitchen, I put everything down on the counter before heading over to the living room and grabbing a vase from one of the hutches I have there. I fill it with water and place the flowers in it when my phone rings from my bag. I leave the vase with the flowers in the sink, walking over and drying my hands on my pants before opening the bag and seeing Knox is calling me. Again.
I look down wondering if I should answer. It’s the second time he’s called me, and I avoided it the first time. I’m going back and forth on whether to answer him when my finger decides for me. “Hello.” I put the phone on speaker before walking over and grabbing a hand towel.
“Kylie,” he says my name.
“She’s not here right now,” I try not to laugh, “but I can take your name and number and she’ll get back to you.”
He laughs. “Very funny.” I can’t help but smile as I pick up the vase and put it on the towel before placing it in the middle of the island. “I called you.”
“I know.” I lean onto the counter, looking down at the phone. “What is this, two thousand and five? No one calls anyone anymore. We text,” I inform him.
“How am I supposed to ask you to come over for dinner through text?” he asks and I stand up, looking down at the phone. Seeing the time tick by, my heart pounds in my chest. “Isn’t that like an informal invitation?”
“No,” I reply.
“No to dinner, or no to it’s not informal?” He chuckles and I can hear him moving in the background.
“I’m not sure,” I say, “I really haven’t—”
“Well, we were going to have tacos,” he tells me, “even though it’s not Tuesday, but it’s the option that won.”
I put the bottom of my foot on top of my other one. “We?”
“I have the kids, and I was thinking you would like to come over and have dinner with us.”
“I…” I start to say, “I don’t really--”
“Kylie,” he says my name and I close my eyes. I’ve been thinking about him nonstop since I opened my eyes yesterday. I went out of my way to keep myself busy by going to not one but two Pilates classes, something that is going to hurt tomorrow. Then I decided to go to the farmers market. On a Sunday. A Sunday when there are so many people it’s hard to even walk, but I did it. “It’s just dinner.” The thought of having dinner with him and his kids scares the shit out of me. “We are even having nachos,” he says in a whisper.
“Well, are they loaded nachos or just chips and salsa with queso?”
“Loaded.”
“Well, how can one say no to loaded nachos?” I close my eyes. I can’t even believe I’m actually saying yes to this.
“Perfect, I’ll send you my address.” I look over and see it’s just after four.
“What time do you eat?” I ask him, looking down at my yoga outfit.
“Usually between five thirty and six, but you can come over whenever you want. Now is good.”
“I just got home,” I tell him. “I have to shower and then I’ll come.” I pick up the phone and head to the bedroom with it. “And I have to pick up dessert.”
“You don’t have to pick up dessert.”
“I’m not coming empty-handed,” I inform him as I turn on the shower. “That’s nonnegotiable.”
“Fine, then come whenever,” he states. “See you soon.” He hangs up and I look down at the phone. Everything in me is telling me to text him an excuse to get out of it. And I mean everything. Every fiber in me is telling me this is a bad idea.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell myself as I step out of the shower. I walk back to my phone and press the address he sent me and my maps open up, showing me it’s a twenty-minute drive. I head to the closet, rushing as I slip into a pair of light-washed jeans that are loose and then slip on a white bra and a white high-neck sleeveless tank top. It falls just above the waist of the jeans. I slip on a white long-sleeved button-down shirt with blue stripes. I roll the cuffs up to the middle of my arms. I brush my hair and tuck it behind my ear, the curls still there from Friday, and I put on a pair of sneakers before rushing out of the house.
I stop at the small bakery near my house, opting to bring cinnamon buns instead of cupcakes. I second-guess the decision the whole way to his house.