Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Or maybe he doesn’t care.
But he will. When I’m at his side, in public, he will. Someone like August needs a fake fiancée who will shine like a diamond. He needs polish and poise. Most days, I can barely tolerate talking to strangers. As much as I’d like to help him, I’m going to have to decline.
The thought of not seeing him anymore depresses me. Without this deal between us, what reason would he have to continue?
My stomach grumbles. As much as I’d like to stay in bed all day, I’m awake now, which means I need my coffee. But given that bossa nova is blasting throughout the apartment, my roommate, Sarah, is definitely up and about, and she’s a bit much to take today when I want nothing more than to be quiet with my own worries.
Another grumble from my stomach has me sighing and throwing back the covers. Glancing at my phone, I’m surprised to find it’s already ten. It isn’t like me to sleep in this long. The last thing I need is to spiral into a depressive episode. I have classes to attend, money to find, and a fake marriage proposal to contemplate. I’m swamped.
Laughing at my own cheesy joke, I pull on some clothes then head out to find my coffee.
Sarah is in the center of the living room, now bopping around to “The Girl from Ipanema.” While it’s not quite a beehive, she’s teased the top of her orange hair into a smooth dome before sweeping it up into a high ponytail. She’s wearing bubblegum-pink pedal pusher pants and a purple mock turtleneck tunic.
She twirls around and spots me. “You’re back.”
It isn’t a particularly happy announcement; Sarah finds me too quiet for her tastes. But I pay my half of the rent on time and am clean. Cleanliness and financial solvency in a roommate has become increasingly hard to find.
“I am.” I head to the small galley kitchen. The cabinets are vintage tin, painted in bright teal. Salmon-pink walls and yellow Formica countertops and vintage avocado-green appliances complete the look. In the full light of the midday sun, it’s bright enough to give me a headache, and I squint as I reach for an I Love Lucy mug and pour myself some much-needed coffee.
“You don’t look great,” Sarah says from the doorway. Her pet, Edward, eyes me with distaste from his perch on her shoulder. As usual, they are in complete agreement.
“Thank you.” I add a dollop of half-and-half to my coffee and stir. “I’m grumpy.”
“Well, it can’t be from Astrud.” She takes another step into the room. “No one can resist the happiness of her voice.”
“I always thought she sounded melancholy.” In all honesty, I’d heard a bit of Astrud Gilberto and bossa nova, but never really listened to it before living here. But the point remains.
Sarah laughs shortly. “I guess she does. But her voice makes me happy, so.” She shrugs and Edward shifts to get more comfortable.
Sipping my coffee, I root around in the fridge for the eggs and butter. I’m going to fix myself a nice scramble with toast and then go for a long walk. I don’t want to make small talk with the headache I’m currently blooming, but Sarah stays and watches me cook.
“Where’d you go again?”
“Boston to visit my mom.” I crack an egg and watch it plop into the bowl. “It was all right.”
The eggs start to firm up in the pan. Plating my food, I grab a fork and head out to the little dining nook. I take a seat at the round teak dining table, and Sarah remains leaning against the doorway, watching.
A sense of smallness and failure crawls over my skin. Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with me for wanting my solitude. I like being social. But I need my alone time. I need to be able to eat my breakfast without having to talk. Not every day. But today, it pricks at my chest.
When I don’t say anything, Sarah sighs and shakes her head as if to say I’ve failed her yet again. “Edward is a better conversationalist than you.”
“No doubt.” I’m tempted to say she’s free to talk to Edward and leave me to my breakfast.
Maybe she sees it in my face; she huffs in a mix of annoyance and amusement, then strolls over to the turntable and selects another album from the library of records stuffed onto the built-in shelves lining one wall.
The room fills with the melodic sounds of Charlie Byrd’s classical jazz guitar, as Sarah sprawls on a chartreuse velvet armchair and Edward settles on her chest.
Digging into my eggs, I plan my hiking route when the door buzzes.
“I’ll get it,” Sarah says with a watery sigh.
She disappears into the front hall. I hear the rattle of the door opening and then the deep, smooth sound of August asking for me. My fork clatters to the table. It irritates me how quickly my heartbeat kicks up.