Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Emme’s apartment was nice, too, but her style was much more girly and dramatic. A pink velvet sofa. Curvy tables and chairs. Fluffy cream-colored blankets and pillows and rugs. Gold accents. A crystal chandelier over her table. I’d never seen her bedroom, but I imagined it was much the same—a big bed covered by a puffy, ruffled down comforter and heaped with pink and ivory pillows she had to tunnel through to get in. She probably had a crystal chandelier up there, too. I once teased her that her apartment looked like it had been decorated by Marie Antoinette. She punched my shoulder, but secretly I think she took it as a compliment.
Inside my loft, I saw the leather bag containing my laptop and a few files sitting right where I’d dropped it on the floor. I’d just gotten in the door from work when I’d heard Emme’s screams and took off running. Given the girl’s propensity to overreact, I thought maybe she’d found a gray hair or broken a nail. One time I heard her shrieking and shouting obscenities at the top of her lungs, and went over there only to find her rolling around on the living room rug in agony trying to zip up her skinny jeans.
But I’ll admit to a fearful adrenaline rush tonight as I’d fumbled for my key to her apartment and raced across the hall. Those screams had sounded real, and I’d had this anxious feeling all day I hadn’t been able to shake, like something was going to go wrong. I’m not a superstitious person by any means, but I don’t believe in ignoring gut instincts. I might not talk about them, but I have them, and they’re usually spot on.
Emme had given me a key to her place because she locked herself out so frequently. She had one to mine as well, but the only time she’d used it was to water my plants when I traveled. I’d never locked myself out. How hard was it to check that you had your keys before you shut the door?
Loosening my tie with one hand, I headed up the stairs to my bedroom. While I changed out of my suit and into jeans and a light gray sweater, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t come home when I did. Would she really have pulled the fire alarm?
Probably.
I shook my head, laughing a little as I hung up my suit pants and jacket—trousers from the hem on a felt clamp hanger so the wrinkles would fall out (I fucking hate wrinkles).
After sniffing the white shirt I’d worn to work, I decided it could use a cleaning, so I tucked it into the bag destined for the dry cleaners. In the bathroom on the other side of my closet, I checked to see that my neatly-tended scruff wasn’t veering too close to mangy hipster territory and ran a hand through my dark hair, pleased to see I hadn’t grown any additional grays since this morning. Lately, it felt like they’d been cropping up overnight. Going gray didn’t worry me because I was getting older—I had no problem with aging. I had the job, the apartment, the car, the social life, the bank account. But I was vain as fuck and liked to look good. The minute I thought the gray was cramping my style, it’d be gone.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I filled a martini glass with crushed ice for Emme and let it chill on the counter, then poured myself a few fingers of bourbon. I was about to text Emme to ask what kind of takeout she felt like having when she messaged me.
Emme: Do you have enough vodka?
Me: Enough for what?
Emme: For my bitterness, my jealousy, my fat ass, my broken heart, and my vengeful soul.
Me: Maybe not for your vengeful soul. But for all the rest, yes.
Emme: Good. There in 20.
A minute later I got on Grubhub and decided to order Chinese from The Peterboro without asking her. She loved the crab rangoon at one of our favorite local places, but if I asked her, she’d probably squawk about having to watch her weight, which was ridiculous. I thought she looked better with a few more curves on her, anyway, but I couldn’t tell her that.
Occasionally I wondered what the fuck the guys she dated were saying or not saying to her to make her anything less than one hundred percent confident in her skin when she was so confident about other parts of her life—her job, style, her family relationships, her opinions. But then I’d remember the kinds of guys she chose—nothing but douchebags and assholes, none of whom were worse than fucking Richard the Turd, and that’s saying a lot. The entire time she was with him, I wanted to tell her what a weasel he would turn out to be.