Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Banks, how can you manage not to clean up your spilled Fruity Pebbles like a four-year-old and then give me advice like that?”
“Easy. I don’t waste my time on the little stuff.” He grins. “Speaking of which—Jess is in Tampa tonight.”
“Oh, no.”
“Dad sent him there for something—I tuned that out, doesn’t involve me. But that means Jess’s house is sitting empty.”
Every muscle in my body hurts. I need to unpack, sort through emails, and clean this place up. “No. Don’t do this tonight.”
“I’ve already started.”
“Banks.”
“I underestimated how long this was going to take. I think I have four sheets left. I made an executive decision and put one on every condom wrapper in his drawer. That was time-consuming and used up a big chunk of my stash because apparently, Jess buys in bulk. But I do love the idea of him getting ready to bang some chick and seeing my face.”
“He’ll murder you.”
“Eh …”
Take me back to paradise. “He has cameras, you know. He’ll know you’re in there before you get out.”
“I happen to know that his cameras don’t pick up the side of his house facing Mom’s. So we use that door, and we’re home free.”
I stare at him, pleading silently for this to go away—or for him to do it alone. But the longer I sit, the more certain I am that I’m only delaying the inevitable.
“You’re sure he’s not coming home?” I ask.
“Yup. Dad made an offhand comment that Jess would be home tomorrow evening.”
I sigh, resigned to my fate. “Fine. But we’re going to make quick work of it. And if we get caught—if Jess finds out—you’re taking the blame. Not me. Got it?”
Banks grins mischievously. “It’s not gonna happen. I got this. Relax.”
Right.
“You’re a dead man. I hope you know that.”
I stand in the middle of Jess’s bedroom and take in the sight. Banks’s face is everywhere.
On his pillows. Mirror. On the ends of his free weights on the floor.
In the closet, the stickers are in the soles of his shoes, on shirt buttons, and inside the pockets of some of his jeans.
I scratch my head, a throb beginning in my temple, and walk down the hallway again. Banks’s face smiles at me from the pictures hanging on the walls. Every person shown is now him.
“I covered his tools, every file in his file cabinet, lamp shades—on the ends of his tweezers,” he says, somehow proud of himself. “I basically have the kitchen left.”
“This is not something I want to be doing,” I say. “I really, really implore you to reconsider.”
“Fuck that. He stole Betsy. He expects me to retaliate.”
I scrub my hands down my face.
“I’m thinking one in the center of every tile,” he says. “Backsplash and floor. We can hit the bottom of his glasses, some of his forks, random pantry items. What do you think?”
I sigh. “I think you’re entirely too excited about this.”
He thrusts a couple of sheets of stickers in my hands. “Let’s get to work. If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”
Banks starts on the backsplash. I lean against the island and look at the sticker up close. It showcases him shirtless, flexing in front of a car with a shit-eating grin. I hope these peel off easy.
“Don’t forget that he almost had you arrested,” Banks says, lifting a brow. “I mean, I was involved in that, but Jess put everything in motion.”
That’s true.
I start sticking Banks’s face to the bottom of Jess’s mugs. “What will it take for you to settle down with a woman?”
“Me?” he asks. “I don’t know.”
“It feels like such a trade-off. My life is great. But it could be greater, maybe.” Probably. Definitely. “But …”
Banks stops and looks at me over his shoulder. The levity usually inked on his face is gone. “What are you scared of, Mad?”
The question, so point-blank, coupled with his expectation of an honest answer, hits me hard.
We watch each other, Banks not backing down, for a few moments. I’m acutely aware of my rapid breathing and my heart thumping blood noisily in my ears. Of the bead of sweat coating my palms.
I’ve confused myself, intentionally, perhaps, about the answer to this question. Over the years, I’ve explained my behavior in a myriad of ways. But there’s one truth, one singular reason that holds me back.
“I’m scared she’ll need me, and I won’t be there,” I say.
My confession hangs in the air between us. Banks looks around the room before dropping his gaze on me.
“The thought of having that responsibility on my shoulders …” I suck in a breath. “It strangles me. I can’t breathe just thinking about it.”
“Well, you know people can take care of themselves—especially Ashley, right?”
I sigh. “Yeah. I know. I get that. But it doesn’t work that way.”
“Then how does it work?”
Annoyed, I move around the room, slapping the stickers on random surfaces. “If I admit to her, to myself, that she’s mine—then she’s mine. I know me, Banks, and I know what I’m going to feel like. I’m barely on the other side of that line now. It’ll consume me. She’ll consume me. I’ll drive myself nuts trying to make her happy.” I stop and look at him. “And what if that doesn’t work?”