Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“And the more I try, the more I’m sucked in. It’s part of why I don’t think I can ever tell my parents I’m gay. I’m their only hope for grandkids. Dad wants to hand off the family business to me. Mom’s been molding me into their perfect heir my whole life.”
“And … they wouldn’t be okay with you being gay?”
“Of course they would be. That makes it worse. It’s more like they don’t even see who I am. Like their idea of TJ is … this person I’ve never met. They talk to me like they’re talking to him. When my mom hugs me, she’s actually hugging him.”
I think about the days I used to greet a crowd of fans by some side door of an auditorium, and how when they looked at me with their adoring eyes, it was like they were seeing someone else. An idea of Chase Holt. What Chase Holt represented to them. Their perfect idol. Their dream guy. Their own wounded heart.
Never just … me.
Is that why I cracked the moment I met Timothy?
Because all he saw was me?
“Okay, fine. Chatty Cat Coffee.”
I flinch from my thoughts. “Huh?”
“It’s right on the edge of town. Quiet on the weekdays. No big crowds. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. Maybe 3 or so. Deal?”
Twelve hours from now. I smile. “I’ll be there.”
“Okay. Goodnight.” And just as abruptly as that, he hangs up, and I’m left staring up at the sky in wonder, my mouth agape, all the beautiful stars spread out before my eyes.
They seem so much closer suddenly.
Chapter 7.
Timothy
It’s been a minute since I’ve sat by myself anxiously awaiting someone in a coffee shop with a cup of hot chocolate.
A guy, specifically.
Who may or may not be responsible for my fluttering heart.
And bouncing-in-place foot.
Why did I get a hot chocolate? It’s warm and humid outside. This is not hot chocolate weather. And besides, the sweet smell of it digs up memories of first dates on campus. Stiff conversation. Sneaking nervous looks and slurping with mounting anxiety.
Wait, this isn’t a first date, is it?
No. We’re just meeting up. Casually. Because we had a couple of interesting conversations, we now find each other interesting, and we’re both interested in the interesting things we’ve shared.
And whatever we might share today.
Haven’t taken a sip of it, yet. I haven’t had hot chocolate from Chatty Cat Coffee since I was fourteen. It’s probably just chocolate by now, all the “hot” evaporated and floating around my head like bad, dizzying, invasive thoughts.
Next to my hot chocolate is a hat. Austin’s hat.
It got knocked off his head when he walked into the lamppost. In the scuffle, I forgot to grab it, and I guess when he left, he didn’t pick it up, because when I went back outside to retrieve my broom (which I’d also up and abandoned) I found the hat halfway across the road, probably carried there by the wind.
It sat by my bedside last night.
I think it’s the real reason I gave in and called him. Well, other than genuinely being unable to sleep. Just when I’d talk myself out of picking up my phone, I’d turn over in bed and my eyes would land on that hat, staring at me like a threat.
Then suddenly the threat was more of an invitation.
A lifeline.
I’m a handful for most, he said. Aren’t I, too?
My ex would agree. TJ Handful McPherson. Neurotic. Twitchy. Overthinker. Perpetually restless. An unhandy handful.
Then I was out of bed, standing at the window like Rapunzel with no handsome prince at the ground. Just a phone in one hand.
And a number scribbled on the other.
Austin …
A car drifts by the coffee shop window, bringing me out of my thoughts. I keep thinking I see him down the street. Then it’s just someone else. I check my phone again, wondering if he’ll cancel last minute. I chose a barstool seat by the window with the long shelf-like table in front of it, which I didn’t recognize upon coming in. Chatty Cat must have done some renovating over the years, the place spruced up and fancier than I remember.
That’s who owns the place. She’s called Chatty Cat.
That’s not her actual name, obviously.
Where the hell is he?
My impatience wins, and I finally leave my not-hot chocolate untouched, snatch the hat, and poke my head outside.
And there he is, in front of the building next-door.
Crouched by the curb.
Having a conversation with an actual cat.
Whatever sweet nothings he’s saying are too quiet to make out. (Not that I could hear them anyway with that dang car alarm a street over that someone needs to do something about.) The cat doesn’t seem impressed by him yet, keeping away, but Austin is patient, hugging his knees while he talks to it. Or at it.
Crouched low, his jeans ride down just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear, his t-shirt not quite meeting them. The fabric clings to the tapered sweep of his back muscles as his arms drape over his knees, muscles standing out in the afternoon sunlight with a faint glow of sweat. He’s wearing a different hat today, tipped just enough to shadow most of his handsome face, leaving only the suggestion of a smirk.