Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Bile rushes up the back of my throat. I make it to the bathroom just in time to vomit up breakfast.
Sometimes a girl just needs to rot in bed. To turn her back on the world and wither for a while. Which is exactly what I am in the process of doing when my neighbor starts shouting at eleven o’clock at night. So rude.
“I know you’re there and I know you’re awake, so come to the window.” Noah pauses. “Come on, Sid.”
The problem with his request is twofold. One. I don’t want to. And two. Just more of the same, actually. For him to be yelling at my window like this means he has seen the trailer. Awkward as fuck. Just horrendous.
“Will you come to the window, please?” he pleads again.
I remember what the other problem is now. I look like shit. My eyes are puffy and red from crying. And while I didn’t used to mind so much about my appearance, apparently my care factor on this front has shifted. Especially when it comes to my neighbor with whom I am just good friends.
“For me?”
Dammit. He found my weakness. I haul my sorry self off the bed and stretch the various kinks out of my back. It was daylight when I laid down, but now it’s dark as…well…night.
“I have ice cream,” he yells across the divide.
“You should’ve said that to start with,” I say. “What kind?”
“Belgian chocolate and, ah, maple butter pecan.”
“Give me the maple butter pecan,” I say, heading for the window. “Hi.”
He gives me a small smile and wraps the pint in a towel. Next, he winds some thick string around the whole thing and ties it off with a bow. “Ready?”
I nod, and he carefully tosses the parcel between our two houses. It’s a quiet night. With the exception of all the noise we’re making. He even thought to include a spoon. Talk about a full-service bedroom-to-bedroom ice cream delivery system. I rest my butt on the windowsill, and we eat in silence for a minute or two. Each of us with our respective pints. Sugar always helps. It’s just science.
“Your place is locked up tight, right?” he asks. “You’re safe?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And I know that you can look after yourself, but I worry.”
I don’t know what to say. Though his words loosen something inside of me. Like suddenly it’s easier to breathe and exist.
“Someone sent back the bacon and clam chowder tonight because there was bacon in it,” he says.
“You’d think the name would give it away.”
“You would.”
“It’s like me being mad because there’s pecan in this ice cream. What do you do when that sort of thing happens?” I ask, digging my spoon in deep.
“Just comp them something else. It isn’t worth the hassle of causing a scene or getting a bad review. Everyone makes mistakes now and then.”
I nod. “That’s a very adult way of looking at it.”
Noah is dressed in his work uniform. Black pants and a white tee. The bedroom light shines behind him. Seeing the lines of his face and hearing the depth of his voice does make life better. It’s strange how people have different vibes. Way back when, I would get excited to see my ex. But being with him didn’t soothe me in this way.
He watches me for a minute and then asks, “Do you want to talk about the trailer?”
Good question. The answer is both yes and no. Ugh. “There’ve been podcasts about what happened. But never an actual show before. I wonder if someone will write a book.”
“Did you get asked to go on any of the podcasts?”
“Yeah. And there have been interview requests from newspapers and magazines. Talk shows who wanted me to come on and trauma dump. I always say no.”
“You never wanted to tell your side of the story?”
“That’s the thing…there was so much said about me even from the start. Most of it complete bullshit from people I’d never met. The idea that anything I could say would affect that barrage one way or another always seemed so farfetched.”
He nods.
“These people turn me into content. They reduce my life and these horrible fucked-up experiences down to soundbites and clickbait. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that,” I say with no small amount of anger. “Do you think I should talk to them?”
“No. Not if you don’t want to. Fuck ’em. None of them actually care about you. At the end of the day, most of them are just trying to profit off your pain.”
I think it through for the thousandth time. And he’s right.
“I take it they don’t need your permission then to use photos or video of you or whatever?”
“No. It’s all a matter of public record now.”
This makes him scowl.
I like having Noah on my side. Both him and ice cream are top-tier things. He licks the chocolate ice cream off his spoon and whoa. What a hussy. I really need to start being a better friend and stop sexualizing this man.