Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
He nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says thoughtfully. “I thought that everyone lived on the beach, drove convertibles, listened to rap, wore bikinis all day long. I was especially looking forward to that last one.”
I reach over and give his knee a violent squeeze so he yelps. “Actually, half of those are true.”
“I also thought they’d all look like you, the quintessential California girl,” he says, his hand drifting down to grab mine. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, gorgeous tanned, soft skin. And it turns out, only you look like you, Marina. Only you are you. Thank god I found you.”
I swallow hard, his words tenderizing me.
I smile. “I’m glad I found you, too.”
That’s the understatement of the year but it’s all I can manage for now. I’m still reeling at the stark simplicity of what he just said. I could feel his heart in it, like he just handed it to me for safekeeping.
And yet, I have no idea if he feels the same way about me as I do with him. No idea if he loves me like I love him. And I love him, so, so much. Like there’s this endless reservoir deep inside me that I’ve accidently tapped and now I’m not sure how to stop it, or even if I want to.
There is so much love in me.
And…this is a risk. A recipe for pain if things go wrong. There’s a chance I could lose Laz forever, a chance I could get severely hurt if my love is a one-way street.
But I don’t even get to decide anymore whether to indulge the feeling or not, I don’t get to decide whether I love him or not. I just do.
I just do.
“You know,” he says, his focus down on his fingers as they lace with mine. He trails off, rubs his lips together. “I have a secret.”
Oh god.
“The night we met?” he says. “It wasn’t an accident.”
I blink at him. “Huh? You mean, at the show?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I told Jane to invite you.”
“Wha…?” I shake my head. “But you didn’t know me.”
“I saw your picture on her Facebook and that was it. I just...I wanted to meet you.”
I can’t believe this. This is nuts.
“You told Jane to invite me? She never told me that.”
“I can’t remember what I said. Probably along the lines of, bring that hot blonde friend of yours and then she probably told me to shut up.”
Huh. To think that he was looking for me when I first showed up at The Joint.
“But you had a girlfriend,” I point out.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Whoa. My eyes narrow at him. I’m his girlfriend now, so what does that mean?
“The truth is,” he goes on, “that night, I consulted the 8 Ball and asked it if I should break up with my girlfriend and go for you instead.” He laughs to himself. “It told me Outlook Not So Good.”
“What?” I cry out softly. “You mean to tell me you would have asked me out if the fucking Magic 8 Ball would have said yes?”
He nods. “Pretty much.”
“Laz…that’s crazy. You can’t do that.”
“Do what?” His brows knit together. “I told you that’s what I do.”
“But this is…this is playing with other people. This is playing with me. I mean, my life…my life would be completely different now if I had gone out with you back then.”
“Different, but not better. Neither of us would have been better off.” He takes off his seatbelt and leans in closer, cupping my face in his hands. His eyes search mine. “Marina, I was an absolute fool until we got together. You would have not wanted to date me back then. Fuck, you wouldn’t have wanted to date me a month ago. The time is right, finally, now, for both of us.”
He’s right. I know he is. The timing would have been off. We would have dated then broken up because he’s such a commitment-phobe or whatever his problem is and then we would have never been friends. We would have never had what we have now.
“Just promise me, you’ll stop using that damn 8 Ball. I’m a part of your life now. I don’t want a toy dictating our fate.”
“I haven’t been. Not seriously.”
I chew on my lip for a moment, gathering courage to ask him a serious question. “Why do you do it? Why the 8 Ball? What does it mean to you?”
He squints off into the distance, looking a tad embarrassed. “Well,” he says in a low voice. “My father had one as a joke.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t have to say anymore.
But he does. “At night, when he had been drinking, he’d get me to play fortune teller. We would do this for hours. It helped calm him down. It calmed me down. Sometimes it didn’t work and he’d throw it across the room, trying to smash it, then smash everything he could lay his hands on. Sometimes that was me.”