Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Only kidding. I promise to keep my clothes on. I can even wear multiple layers. Don’t run away again.
I wasn’t running away. I was picturing it.
I hit the blue send arrow before I had time to think it through. But as soon as I saw the words on the screen, I gasped. “Shit,” I whispered. The dots faded in and out again.
You were picturing me naked in your house?
It’s your fault. You put the idea in my head.
Does that mean I can picture you naked at MY house?
No.
Too late.
My breath caught. Was he flirting? Or just trying to poke at me?
This is not a very appropriate conversation for friends, is it?
Not really.
So I will say goodnight and see you tomorrow at 7.
Goodnight.
I set my phone on the charger and set my alarm. Then I sank down in my bed, remembering how I used to lie awake at night and fantasize about Dashiel Buckley.
Kissing him. Flirting with him. Wearing that navy UM hoodie he loved, the one that made his eyes look even more blue. Holding his hand in the hallway, even though he was a senior and I was a freshman, and such a thing was never going to happen.
I had more suggestive dreams too.
Lying on a couch with him. Running my palm over the front of his jeans. Allowing his hand to slide up my shirt. Feeling his weight on me.
I picked up my Kindle from my nightstand and opened my book, but I found my eyes skimming over the words without actually reading them. My mind was wrapped around a question.
If I could’ve gone back in time tonight and told sixteen-year-old Ari exactly how her attempt at seduction would play out, I wondered if she’d have taken my advice, found a new crush, and abandoned her mission to give Dashiel Buckley her virginity.
Knowing my teenage self, I had a feeling she’d have told me to go back to the future and leave her alone—that’s how sure I was back then that he and I were meant to be. In fact, she’d probably blame me for messing up her dream.
You must have screwed it up, she’d tell me. It’s all your fault. Look at your hair, it’s a mess. Is that how you wore it? Ugh! And what’s with the giant bandage on your hand? Am I clumsy in the future? Great, just great.
Then I’d tell her he was coming over to watch a three-hour movie with me tomorrow night. She’d like that.
A second chance, she’d say with satisfaction. Then she’d scowl and point a finger at me. Don’t fuck it up.
There’s nothing to fuck up, I’d tell her. We’re just friends.
Weren’t we?
For dinner Tuesday night, I made a version of chicken pot pie that had all the comforting, savory flavors of the original dish but included a few French-inspired ingredients—shallots, tarragon, and puff pastry. Everything took me a little longer with only one good hand, but I managed to get it in the oven and grab a few minutes to change into clothes that weren’t dusted with flour, spattered with cooking oil, or splashed with chicken stock.
In my bedroom, I pulled on clean jeans and a soft ivory sweater in a light knit. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard—this wasn’t a date or anything—so I didn’t put on fresh makeup, and I left my hair alone. Studying my reflection in the mirror, I frowned and added some mascara. Dusted my cheeks with a little blush. Applied some lip gloss.
“Stop it,” I whispered to myself, spraying perfume on my neck. My hair. My wrists.
I was fluffing my brows when I heard a knock on the front door. Tossing the brush in my makeup bag and the bag in the cabinet under the sink, I hurried to the door and pulled it open. “Hi. Come on in.”
“Thanks,” Dash said, stepping inside. He sniffed and looked at me with awe. “Is that our dinner I smell?”
I laughed and shut the door. “Yes.”
“What is it? My mouth is watering so fast, I’m going to drool here in a second.”
“It’s a fancy twist on chicken pot pie,” I said, walking through the living room to the kitchen. “It’s just about ready to come out, I think.”
“Is it something you want to serve at Moe’s?” He wandered over to the stove, watching me pull the large cast iron skillet from the oven.
“I’m going to serve it as a special one day this week. Don’t tell my parents.” I set it on the stove top and studied the puff-pastry crust, golden and flaky and fragrant. It looked beautiful, and yet I still found myself looking for faults. Was the crust overdone? Had the sauce properly thickened? Were my vegetables chopped consistently? Had I over-seasoned or under-seasoned? Was the balance of savory and sweet correct? Were the textures perfect?