Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“No. I left through my own stubbornness. My dad wanted me to join his business and I wanted to make my own way in life. Looking back, knowing what I know now about real problems, it was a stupid argument over nothing important.”
“Real problems? Sounds serious.”
“Can you pass me the jar of tomato sauce?” I asked, deliberately sidestepping his question. I felt at ease with Matt. Safe. Sometimes it made me reveal a little too much about myself and I needed to learn to control that.
“Umm…” Matt’s gaze scoured the kitchen surfaces until it landed on the sauce. He reached out for it, removed the lid and then grinned devilishly at me. “You mean this one?” He dipped his finger into the jar and then flicked a dollop of sauce right at my face.
“Seriously?” I wiped the sauce from my cheek on the back of my hand. “How old are you? Twelve?”
The fucker did it again.
Remaining completely calm, I turned to the side, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a carton of milk.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Matt said, gathering another blob of sauce on his finger and hovering it threateningly in front of me.
Without giving him a chance to get to me first, I lunged at Matt, chucking the entire contents of the carton into his face.
“What the fuck?” Matt sucked in the breath he was holding before shaking himself off like a wet dog. “This is fucking war!”
I saw him coming at me with the full jar of sauce. I sidestepped him and ducked, and then ran for my life into the living room, jumping over the back of the couch. As I lifted my leg to climb over the coffee table I felt my foot being pulled. Half a second later I was flat on my back on the floor, Matt straddling me, and the jar of tomato sauce just inches from my face.
“Okay, okay,” I began. “Truce!”
“Say you’re sorry.”
“You started it!”
“Say it,” he repeated, milk dripping from his mousey-brown hair as he tipped the jar just slightly.
“Okay I’m sorry! Jesus!”
“I forgive you,” he said with a twisted smile. His weight lifted off my body and he stood up, one foot on either side of my waist, trapping me. “But you still deserve a punishment.”
“Fucker!” I yelled at the same time the full contents of the jar splattered across my face. Sitting up, I pulled my t-shirt off over my head, using it to wipe myself down. “I needed that to finish dinner! Asshole.”
“I think I’ve got some of that shit in the cupboard,” Matt said, holding his arm out for me to pull myself up.
“Wait, you have actual food in those cupboards?” I asked, crinkling my eyes and staring at him when I reached his level.
“My mom keeps the cupboards stocked. Then every couple of months she throws it all in the trash and starts again.”
“Guess I’d better switch the stove off while we get cleaned up.” And while I plot my revenge.
I wasn’t sure what I would do yet, but I needed to do something. Probably while he was sleeping, then I could run before he could retaliate. Maybe shave his hair off again. He hated that. After he lost the bet last year he tried the look out for a few weeks but decided he looked eighty years old. So now, after months of growing, he was back to his shaggy ‘I don’t own a brush’ style, only now it was brown instead of blond, and currently sodden with milk and sticking to his cheeks.
After showering in separate bathrooms, Matt changed into some sweat pants and I borrowed a pair of his jeans and a t-shirt. Naturally I found myself gawping unashamedly at Matt’s exposed chest all the way through dinner, as I imagined any gay man with eyes would. He was hot, and he knew it too. That was clear by the wink he flashed every time he caught me looking.
When we’d finished eating I forced Matt to help me clear the dishes and tidy the kitchen, ignoring his insistence that his mom would do it the next morning. I swear I didn’t know why she put up with his shit. He was a big boy now and needed to start acting like it.
“Where do these go?” Matt asked, holding the clean plates in his hands.
“Are you being serious? It’s your kitchen.”
“Hmm. I’ll just stuff ‘em in there,” he said, opening the cupboard filled with cans and jars. Shaking my head, I laughed. “I only used to spend a couple of months a year here and my mom has always kept the place tidy. I’m sure she moves things around just to confuse me.”
“More likely you never actually use the kitchen for anything more than getting a beer from the refrigerator.”
“That too. Seeing as you mentioned it,” he said, stepping toward the refrigerator. “Want one?”