Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
It was me who finally broke the silence.
“How is it?” I asked, washing my hands after gathering some supplies.
“It’s not overly pleasant. But it will serve as a reminder not to act like a crazy person every time I see a weapon,” she said, rolling her eyes at herself. “In my defense, I didn’t realize guns were so… prevalent here. In other areas of the country, sure. But I’ve never seen one before here, then, suddenly, twice in a short period.”
“Sweetheart, you were shot,” I said, finding and holding her gaze. “It’s alright to get a little freaked when you see one now.”
“I guess,” she agreed, her lashes fluttering down, keeping those pretty eyes of hers out of view. It was probably for the best, but I missed them instantly.
What the fuck was going on with me?
“Alright. This might sting a little,” I told her before I started to clean, then dress, the wound.
She kept herself quiet, but her knuckles were white where she was gripping the counter.
“Did I set myself a week back again?” she asked, sounding sad and tired and over it.
I understood that.
While I hadn’t been shot myself, when I’d been down with my broken leg, I was fucking miserable. Always wanting to push the limits and get some semblance of my life back, but then my body would revolt, and I would be in pain and tired and even further from that finish line.
“I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think so. It’s healing from the inside out, so while you might have damaged the layers closer to the surface, the inside ones are probably still fine. Just a temporary little setback. You’ll be in your garden in no time.”
“The weeds are starting to act like they’re paying rent,” she grumbled. “Sorry. I’m just feeling sorry for myself,” she said, trying to shake the mood off.
“You just need some rest,” I assured her.
“I feel like all I’m doing is resting.”
“Honey, you’ve been working with fresh gunshot wounds. You’re not resting.”
“I guess,” she agreed. “I’m just usually really on the go all the time,” she admitted. “Work is over earlyish, so I always have the afternoons and evenings to get stuff done. And I am usually getting so much done. It’s killing me that all I am doing is working and sleeping.”
“But if you let yourself rest as much as possible now, you will heal faster, and then will be back to usual more quickly,” I reasoned, even though I knew I’d gotten the same speech from my family, and it hadn’t changed my sour mood about being out of commission.
“True,” she agreed. “I guess I could try to work on projects from bed too.”
I felt my lips tease up at the ends, then forced them to flatten out. There was no arguing with hyper-productivity. Some people just had to be doing something all the time. My own mother was like that. I could hardly think of a time I just walked in to see her sitting around watching TV or doing nothing. She was always cleaning, cooking, redecorating, working in her garden. Even if she was having a friend over for a chat, she would be rolling out dough, icing a cake, something, while she talked.
“That’s the spirit,” I said instead of objecting to her doing anything. “Can I help you grab anything to take to bed with you?” I asked.
From there, she had me gathering some knitting supplies, a sketchbook to work on a new flyer for the restaurant, a couple of books—one about companion gardening, and the other about raising quail—and some tea.
“Planning on getting quail?” I asked as I stacked the book on her nightstand.
“Oh, well, maybe,” she said, nodding. “Mom likes to work with quail eggs on occasion, and they aren’t easy to get locally. And if you can find them, they’re incredibly expensive. So I was thinking it might be smarter in the long run to raise my own. Plus, I mean, look at them,” she said, reaching for the book, and flashing me the image on the cover of the tiny birds.
“Yeah, you don’t have any pets, huh?” I asked.
“We never could before,” she told me. “We lived in rentals or in the van most of my life. There was never much room for animals. But I’ve always wanted some. My mom has a cat she rescued.”
“My ma has cats too. They hate everyone but her,” I added.
“You don’t have any pets?” she asked. “If you can, where you live,” she added.
“I own my place,” I told her. “But I’ve been so busy fixing it up that I haven’t wanted to bring anything into a construction zone. It’s getting there, though, so I am hoping to get a dog soon.”
“I am struggling to picture your house,” she admitted. “Is it one of those modern houses?” she asked, trying really hard not to sound turned off by the idea, but failing miserably. Which made sense. She didn’t strike me as someone who liked anything minimal. She liked the cozier things in life.