Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
I squash the emotion down and get to work, building the layers of the pile the child is sitting on, carefully adding plaster to the canvas.
Once I’m done with this collection, I want to create pieces showing the joys of life. My mind floods with ideas while I get lost in my art.
When my stomach grumbles and I lift my head, I realize the room is growing dark. I get up from my stool, and stretching, I check the time on my phone.
Wow. Seven-thirty. Time just flew by while I worked.
I go into my messages and see neither Beverly or Denise has read the text I sent earlier.
Maybe we can meet for lunch during the week?
Wanting to check with them, I press dial in the group chat. It takes a few rings before Denise answers.
“Hey. What’s up?”
Beverly doesn’t answer the call, so I ask Denise, “I sent a text earlier in the group chat, but you must’ve been busy. How does lunch sound sometime during the week?”
“Oh, sorry. I’ve been busy planning my birthday party,” Denise apologizes. “Lunch would be nice. I’ll talk to Beverly and let you know which day works for us.”
“That will be great.” I leave my art room and head down the stairs to the living room. “What are you planning for your birthday party? Is there anything I can help with?”
“I’m making it an Arabian Night’s theme. It’s going to be incredible.”
“That sounds exciting.” A smile curves my lips. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask again.
“No, we’ve got it covered. You won’t be bringing a date, right?”
The smile fades from my face. I hate that everyone just assumes I don’t have a boyfriend. Even if it’s the truth.
On the spur of the moment, I say, “I’m bringing a plus one.”
“You are?” she gasps. “Do I know him?”
“No…ah…we met at the gallery,” I lie through my teeth.
“Good for you,” she says, her tone friendly. “Charles will be my plus one. Things are getting serious, and I’m hoping he’ll pop the question at my party.”
Charles?
“You haven’t told me about Charles,” I murmur. “How long have you been dating?”
She lets out a chuckle. “I’m sure I told you. He’s all I talk about.” She chuckles again. “We’ve been together for six months. He’s a stockbroker at Daddy’s firm. I’ll send you a photo of us.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’m dead sure I told you about him.”
She probably told Beverly, but wanting to set her at ease, I say, “Shoot, you did. Sorry.”
“Yeah…so, I have to go.”
Feeling a little awkward, I suck in a deep breath of air. “Sure. Let me know when we can meet for lunch. It will be good to see you and Beverly again.”
“Will do,” she says in a sing-song tone before ending the call.
There’s a heavy feeling in my gut as I walk to the kitchen to fix myself something to eat.
I really didn’t know about Charles, and thinking hard, I realize I haven’t seen Beverly and Denise since Beverly’s birthday – which was over seven months ago.
I sit down by the island in my kitchen and stare at the marble top.
Has it really been that long?
I open our group chat and scroll through our texts. What I see makes me feel like I’m begging for their friendship.
Over the past year, I was the one to reach out first, and there were many times I’ve mentioned for us to get together, but they were always busy.
My shoulders slump as I’m forced to accept the fact that I’m not as important to them as they are to me.
Or were to me.
I’m done being the first to message them.
Letting out a huff, I drop the device on the counter and walk to the fridge.
My cellphone beeps, and when I pick it up again, it’s to see a photo from Denise. It’s of her, a guy who I assume is Charles, Beverly, and some guy who’s probably Beverly’s date.
Denise: I have good taste, don’t I?
They’re all smiling, and from the background, they seem to be at Denise’s house.
A burst of anger explodes in my chest because I’m clearly wasting my time on people who don’t care about me.
I don’t even bother replying to Denise’s text, and walking to the living room, I grab my handbag and keys from where they were lying on the couch.
I leave my apartment, and thirty minutes later, I reach my destination. Whenever I feel overemotional, I come to The Rage Cage, where I use one of their rage rooms to let off steam. It’s my version of a therapy session because talking to a stranger about how I feel is something I’ll never do.
I only have to wait ten minutes before a room opens up, and after putting on the required coveralls, I pick a sledgehammer for my choice of weapon.