Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“You named your jeep after the planet?”
“The Roman God.”
“Ohhhh! To match your name!”
“Godddd, I hope you’re better at finding treasure than you are at connecting dots,” leaves me in an exasperated mutter as we head for my vehicle.
Our drive from the house down to the business side of the beach is short but nonetheless filled with my loud, over the top, carefree singing to one of my favorite songs. The fact that Zero joins in on the karaoke style crooning, oddly makes me love the jam even more.
And like him even more.
It’s already kind of hard not to.
He’s basically a dumbo octopus.
Adorable and non-threatening.
Which I need.
My regular life has plenty of danger constantly coming and going.
Danger that I may or may not bring upon myself.
Like nine times out of nine point five.
But again.
Where’s the fun in dipping a toe in the water when your ass can cannonball in?!
“Can’t believe you like Weezer,” he gushes, on a slam on the jeep door closed.
“Can’t believe you know who Weezer is,” I mirthfully jeer in return after motioning my head the direction of the shop we’re gonna hit up.
“My music tastes are the total opposite of streaming ones.”
“Meaning?”
“All over the place.”
“How all over the place?”
“I like Dolly Parton.”
“Everyone likes Queen Dolly Parton.”
“Hozier.”
“He’s hard not to like.”
“Noah Kahan.”
“Now you’re giving me one vibe.”
“Prince.”
“And we’re back to Dolly Parton territory.”
“Kendrick Lamar.”
“He’s like the modern rap version of Prince.”
All of a sudden, he barks, “Cross Canadian Ragweed!”
“Okay,” I unexpectedly concede, “that one is definitely not like the others.”
A round of small snickers is exchanged on our way into Sand Sational, the best ice cream shop on this stretch of the Texas coast. While we both get single scoop cones, our particular flavors are miles apart, further showcasing – in a strange way – the type of individuals we are.
I’ve learned so much shit traveling the world.
How people talk.
How people lie.
How people will confess the truth without realizing.
And one way they do that?
Through frozen dessert.
“Fun fact,” I begin at the same time we park ourselves on the nearest outdoor bench, “ice cream can tell me a lot about a person.”
He casually extends one arm along the backside of the furniture and enjoys his first lick. “Like?”
“Your willingness to be face first in a hot pink treat while sporting a very loud leopard print shirt says to me that you give zero fucks about what the general population thinks of you.”
“I don’t.”
“But,” one leg crosses the other, allowing me to completely angle myself towards him, “the uncertainty you suffered while debating whether to get bubble gum flavor with or without actual bubble gum indicates there’s still a minor concern you harbor regarding how those you care about view you.”
At that, our gazes lock.
“Flattered I make that cut.”
“We’re living together for at least the next couple of weeks. OFC, I care what you think of me.”
“One, the whole talk your type speak, not my fav.”
“Noted.”
“Second-”
“You don’t like bubble gum?”
“Not in my ice cream, Bubblicious.”
“Is that why we’re not sharing?”
“We’re not sharing because contrary to how close you are to having just graduated high school-”
“I graduated early.”
“-we are legally both adults who can afford the cash as well as the calories to enjoy our respective treats.”
Zero lightly chuckles.
Has another lick.
Chuckles again and kicks his chin in my direction. “Okay, dudette. What’s second?”
“Second,” is emphasized on the crooked grin that’s thoughtlessly covering my face, “I have literally lived with people for months and not given a shit about them or what they think.”
Shock sends his jaw straight to his lap. “No cap?”
“Proximity does not equal fucks to give in my navigation manual.” Post a single lick of my pistachio ice cream, I nonchalantly segue, “And since we’re talking about navigation now, did you secure us a vessel?”
Zero proudly beams and resumes consuming his treat.
“What type?”
“Um…the type that goes in the water?”
“Like a cabin boat? Or a cruiser? Center console? Trawler?” The clueless cringe I’m presented instantly causes me to mirthfully glare. “See.” Another taste is taken. “You can make the face. You don’t have to say the word.”
Light laughs push his body slightly closer to mine, and I let them.
Why not?
He’s cute.
Sweet.
Hung – accordingly to my Sherwhorian deductions.
There’s nothing wrong with a little boat rocking.
Especially when you know the sand in the hourglass is already falling.
“Boats are your thing?” Zero warmly investigates, sandal bearing foot gingerly brushing against mine.
“Fuck yeah,” enthusiastically escapes. “I actually met Garcia for the first time at a regatta with my dad.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.” The smile on my face fades at the same speed that it arrived. “Back when Dad still sailed and we still talked and the wicked step cunt wasn’t in the picture and Garcia wasn’t trying to avoid whatever awkward shit happened in my absence.”
Rather than retort, he simply wipes away the pink droplet from the corner of his mouth.