Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
And just like that, I’m back to feeling sad and mourning the loss of Remy’s incomparable pussy.
“Hey there,” a deep voice sounds from behind me. “Nice floatie. Pink is your color.”
I paddle around to see Tank and Stephanie emerging from the stairwell door, his arm around her shoulders, and both of them looking disgustingly happy. Tank carries a six-pack of craft beer in his free hand, while Stephanie balances a large tote bag filled with our afternoon snacks on one hip.
“Thank you,” I say with a grin, sliding off my inflatable flamingo and striding through the shallow water to the side of the pool. “Glad you made it. I was beginning to think you’d been snarled up in traffic. The construction downtown sucks ass this summer.”
“It’s awful,” Stephanie agrees, setting the bag on one of the tables beneath an open umbrella. “But I have to confess, it’s my fault we’re late. We were giving Piggie a bath after he rolled in something nasty in the park, and then…we got distracted.”
The look they exchange makes me both happy for them and vaguely nauseated. My best friend and his yoga instructor girlfriend are sickeningly in love, the kind that makes single people develop spontaneous lactose intolerance from the sheer cheesiness of it all.
I haul myself out of the pool, water cascading off my body as I grab my towel from the lounger nearby. “Distracted, huh?” I tease as I join them in the shade. “Is that what you horny bastards are calling it these days?”
Tank grunts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I plead the fifth. Here, have a beer. It’s a coffee porter. Maybe it’ll put some hair on your chest.”
I accept the peace offering with a grin. “Aw, thanks. But sadly, I think I’m doomed to remain relatively hairless. Too much Swedish on my mother’s side.”
While I crack open a cold one, Stephanie arranges a spread of vegan delights—hummus with veggies, some kind of quinoa salad that looks way more appetizing than quinoa has any right to, and a plate of cookies that I know from experience are simultaneously healthy and delicious, a magic trick I appreciate now that camp is underway and good nutrition is more important than ever.
“So, what have you been up to this weekend?” she asks, shooting me one of those knowing looks she specializes in. The woman sees far too much. I blame all the meditating. It can’t be good for a person to meditate that much.
I take a long pull of my beer before answering. “Oh, you know. The usual. I lifted. Brunched. Hit a decoupage class at the craft co-op.” I don’t mention spending most of last night staring at my phone, drowning my sorrows in pricey dirty vodka martinis while forcing myself not to text Remy. “Living the bachelor dream.”
Tank settles into a chair, a subtle frown creasing his forehead. “Yeah? Then why do you look like shit?”
“Wow, thanks, pumpkin.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
“He just means you look more tired than usual,” Stephanie translates, her voice gentle as she hands me a plate. “Everything okay?”
I shrug and pretend to find the patio tile suddenly fascinating. “Yeah. Good. Just first week of training camp hangover, I guess. It’s hard being old.”
Tank grunts again, a co-sign grunt this time. “It is. The rookies are hyper as fuck this year. I have to pound an energy shake with extra espresso before afternoon practice just to keep up.”
“Same,” I agree. “I’d think they were juicing if they weren’t all so fucking wholesome. Grammercy is on that organic grind, and Bellamy doesn’t drink anything fun. Alcohol or caffeine.”
“Yeah, they suck, but that doesn’t explain the sad,” Tank says, motioning to my face. “Behind the eyes.”
Thankfully, I’m saved from further interrogation by Stephanie surging from her chair with a fretful groan. “Oh no, I think I’m going to—” She slaps a hand to her mouth before bolting toward the bathroom near the stairwell.
Tank and I exchange a concerned glance before he hurries after her, leaving me alone with my beer and my thoughts, neither of which is particularly good company at the moment. Coffee porter isn’t my favorite. Neither is being called out on my less-than-immaculate vibes.
I tell myself that my eyes aren’t sad—they’re just a little hungover—but I’ve never been great at lying to anyone, least of all myself.
A few minutes later, my guests return, Stephanie looking a little unsteady but no longer green beneath her golden-brown skin. Tank has his arm around her waist, supporting her like she might float away if he lets go. For a guy who spent most of his life avoiding emotional entanglements, he’s transformed into the most devoted partner I know.
“You okay, Steph?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, a smile quirking her lips as she glances up at Tank. “I’m just a little…off. But it’s nothing a few crackers won’t cure.”