Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Nuggets.” She falls back on the couch. “Or bust.”
God damn it.
I could scream.
My mother hasn’t eaten meat in three months—before that, she would only have fish—and now she wants chicken freaking nuggets like she’s five years old. And we both know a batch of dino-shaped freezer nugs won’t be good enough. No, she’ll want me to do them from scratch.
And the sick part is, I get to my feet and find my wallet.
“Oh, love, and if you’re going out, we need more toilet paper.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that an hour ago?!”
Her fingers twist in the air. “I didn’t get a sign. And I didn’t notice.”
Fuck me.
“I’ll be back, and you’re going to eat these stupid nuggets, do you hear me?”
“Love you, darling.”
I storm out of the apartment.
This is my life. I slave at WashCo and I run errands for my flighty, pot-smoking mother. I do it all because if I don’t, she’ll starve herself. I’ve seen it happen before, the way the darkness takes over her and she spirals, turning stick-thin and gangly, and I won’t let it happen. If that means going out twice and making stupid chicken nuggets, that’s what I’ll do. At least I don’t run into Dennis.
The city’s alive on a Saturday evening. Our apartment is a cage, but I put up with it because I love Bushwick. It’s my home, always has been, probably always will be. I’ll die pickled of weed smoke probably years before my mother does. But at least there will be motion around me, neighbors on stoops, kids on the playground, young guys and girls on bikes zipping through traffic on the way to make food deliveries. I pause at the corner, waiting for the light, and turn left to look—
And frown when a car pulls out. It’s a black BMW, shiny and gorgeous, not the sort of thing I usually see around here. Parts of this neighborhood are gentrifying, but we’re in a holdout pocket still, though everyone knows it won’t last. I squint at the windshield, heart pattering.
I swear, the man behind the wheel is Connor Maguire.
The light changes. I hurry to cross, head down. That couldn’t have been him. There’s no way he’d ever be in this neighborhood, right? Connor belongs in Manhattan, in fancy Upper East Side apartments and brownstones, not crumbling Bushwick corner stores.
But when I risk a look back, I’m almost positive it’s him.
And he’s watching me.
I shiver with excitement. This is stupid. I’m hallucinating. Too much second-hand weed smoke. I haven’t seen Connor since that evening we shared six weeks ago now. At first, in the days right after, I kept thinking maybe it would happen again. I left him with three images—only three, he promised, and I believed him—and I wondered if maybe he’d come ask for more, or maybe he’d want to pose me against himself, and maybe he’d kiss me, fill me, fuck me, make me feel beautiful—
Except it never happened. Days dragged, turned to weeks, and now I’m sure he’s avoiding me. I haven’t even seen him in the halls.
Nobody knows it happened. I haven’t told Nadia, which is a minor miracle. I’m not sure she’d believe me if I did.
I mean, I couldn’t blame her. Why the hell would Connor Maguire want to have sex with me? A nobody working in his accounting department?
That man is like a beautiful god and I’m about the most boring girl imaginable.
No, it’s a fluke. Connor doesn’t want me. He’s back to being nothing more than Big Boss. And there’s no way in hell that’s him driving the BMW.
Even as it rolls past me, and I swear his eyes are on me through the window.
I duck into the bodega, heart racing wildly.
Is he following me?
Why the hell would he do that?
But no, I’m being ridiculous. Weed smoke. That’s all it is. I’m contact high. Although I can’t imagine that’s true since I must have the strongest tolerance possible by now.
I greet the bored guy behind the counter and pick out what I need. The prices suck but I don’t feel like walking to the better grocery store ten blocks away. I’m about to pile everything on the counter when I pause in the personal care section.
There, down at the bottom, is a pregnancy test.
Cute box. Pink, gray, and purple. A stick, some gloves, what looks like a cup. I don’t need it, right? I’m not thinking about the late period. I don’t think about that, and I don’t think about how Connor fucked me deep and satisfying, the best sex I’ve ever had by a wide margin, and how he didn’t wear protection, and I’m not on birth control, and he finished deep inside of me—
“Find everything?” The guy rings me up, bagging my stuff.
“All good, thanks.”
I hurry from the store. I fall into a flow of walkers and head toward the crossing again. Mom’s waiting. Pot smoke and laughter. It’ll be okay. I’ll cook, make her eat something. We’ll be fine. When the light changes, I walk to the other side, and spot that BMW again.