An artificial reef helped prevent the Atlantic Ocean from invading miles and a half of still waters, and at 7 o'clock in the morning, there were nearly twenty scullers. This is my fifth time rowing with Connor, although this is the first time since "Eight" was published in October last year, and we have reached a stable rhythm very early.
We skipped the water in the glass, and Connor asked between the strokes: "How does it feel to be famous?"
Oh, I forgot to say, when you boat with Connor, you have to pass the time with small talk. I tried to cover up my breathing difficulties, I said: "What?"
He turned around and shouted, "I said, how does it feel to be famous?"
I heard his voice for the first time, but I need a few seconds to rest and express my answer. "That book shouldn't be written at all. (breathing) I didn't ask for this shit."
"What? Be recognized? Fame? Did you see the lady pointing at you? For God's sake, you are the wealth of the country. Do I mean the wealth of the country? Because I mean the wealth of the country. Which Is your ugly face on the cover of the magazine? Time or people?"
Solemnly declare that I have been on both. I wisely ignored his question. "How about you? (Breathe) Don't tell me you don't (breath) get your fair share of (breath) celebrity (breath) status."
Connor stopped during the shot, then turned around. He bit the inside of his cheek again and said, "Tell me you are joking. Haven't you read that book?"
I can feel my heart beating on my right shoulder, and I am grateful for the opportunity to rest. "No. I accidentally dropped one book into the Atlantic Ocean, and the other fell into my outdoor fireplace."
"Didn't Lacey tell you anything about this book?"
"No. I told her that as long as she mentions this book, I will rearrange all the furniture in the house. "Anyway, I'm done. Lacey stopped dropping her calf on the coffee table recently.
Connor's lips closed tightly. "That Weasel Tums didn't even mention my name. Can you believe it? I made the biggest breakthrough in the whole case. Damn, the only breakthrough in this case, Thomas even No mention of my name. Nonsense, that's it. What a fucking nonsense."
He did not lie. Connor was the only one who accidentally got a clue that allowed us to find the murderer. Sorry, it should be the murderer. I feel sorry for this child, and I think his name will definitely surface once, if not repeatedly in the entire book. Deep down in my heart, I know that his absence is entirely my responsibility. If I sit down with Toums, I will give all the honor to Connor. I grabbed his shoulders, "Nonsense. You know I will correct him, but I don't think you, me, or anyone else is trustworthy. It's not over yet."
"What does it mean that it's not over yet? It's been a year for Thomas. Triston Greer is dead. You need to stop reading those shit pet cemeteries—it's disturbing your mind."
I put the oars into the water and said, "I don't read Stephen King's book. I read Michael Clayton." I would rather be confused than be frightened.
We spent an hour discussing how big a bastard Thomas was and exchanged punishment plans if we were to be alone with him. Of course, suppose. Connor wanted to take him to a certain island, or somewhere else, and torture him until he wrote a revised version of "Eight" in October. I think Potato peeled his whole body, made him scab, and almost died of infection. I will send him to the hospital before the wound rots.
Yes, I know, I am very weak inside.
I managed to climb the deck stairs, walked through the sliding glass door, and lay face down on a tan leather sofa. The leather immediately stuck to my sweaty muscles. Lacey heard my gasping sound through the leather back and made a foul gurgling sound.
After a burst of giggles, she said: "I have the best impression of you now. If your impression is close to the actual situation, then you are a sad loser." She had a good Lloyd. De christmas.
I shouted through the gap between the two cushions: "Water! Good wine! I'm dying!"
Lacey needs to review her caveman, because the water doesn't pour into my throat, but into my back. My body went from so hot to so cold, so fast, I was surprised that I did not have seizures. After the initial shock, the situation was not too bad, until the water ran down the crease of my back into the huge balloon knot.
I looked up, stretched the leather's molecular borders, and shouted, "You are the devil!"
The faucet turned on again, and a few seconds later, a cold cup was placed in my hand. After a lot of effort, my skin was pulled out of my bones. I lay on my back without lifting my eyelids, and successfully brought the cold glass to my lips. I drank it all in one go.
The cold sex entered my stomach along my esophagus, stayed for a microsecond, made a U-turn, activated my esophagus, came out of my mouth, and stayed on the tan leather sofa. In this harsh test, I opened my eyes and looked at Lacey intently. If you are curious, you can see her lying on her back, kicking her legs, tears streaming down her face.
When you are treated as the object of a prank by a blind person, something must be wrong.
In fact, when I yelled "What the hell did you give me?", I found myself laughing. I licked my lips, but my buds only detected the sour bile in my purification fluid. The sofa was dotted with white spots, and I said, "Don't tell me you gave me soy milk junk food."
Lacey controlled herself and said, "I'm sorry, I can't help it. I didn't expect to succeed ー" She had another episode.
I stepped over her and said, "I want you to pee on yourself."
When I woke up in the bathtub, the water was warm. The hot bath and three tablets of Tylenol made my sore muscles sore, and I didn't think I was too shabby.
I walked out of the bathroom and went into the master bedroom without a towel. I prefer natural air drying. There was nothing in the room except a king-size bed and a dilapidated dressing table, which I bought at a garage auction nearby. There is a picture of my parents on the synthetic oak dressing table. This photo was taken when they were born at the age of fifty. Two full years later, on the day of their joint 5-year-old birth, when my father's company closed down, the two of them were flying back from the Rolling Stones concert.
Next to their pictures are pictures of Connor, Lacey, Caitlin and me. The four of us have been together for almost nine months, and those were the best months of my life. Deep down, I'm not sure if I still love Caitlin. I know I don't love her, if that makes sense. This reminded me that I still had to call her, so I picked up the bedside phone.
She picked up the third ringtone and I said, "Hi, Kate."
Caitlin didn't respond for only a few seconds, and I imagined she was shuffling to find the reminder card. She cleared her throat and said, "I'm waiting for your call. We should still be friends, if not friendly."
Oops.
I don’t know how to answer this question. After consulting my Swiss answer list, I chose "Uh, how are you?"
"Come on, Thomas, we haven't spoken for a month, you just have to say, um, how are you? She made a very good impression on me.
I want to say, "This is the only thing I have said so far," but I don't want to push myself into a corner. I imagined a conversation with a woman as a boxing match, and so far—how do I say it, within five seconds—I have given a quick stab and am about to make a quick right uppercut. "Listen, I'm sorry, but it's hard to be friends with someone you love."
Oops.
This is equivalent to tying your hands behind your back and spraying lemon juice into your eyes.
I told her, "Thomas, do you still love me?"
It's like a crazy word puzzle, all you have to do is fill in the blanks. When I wrote to myself on the back of the envelope, I thought of this question: It is an adjective, an adverb noun, which means to get myself into this adjective situation, should be forced to be a verb, a noun, which means an adjective adverb noun .
Caitlin waited patiently for my answer, sadly, "I don't know Kate. I just don't know."
I **painted** in the blank space, and then read what I wrote: Thomas Prescott is a super bastard, who puts himself in this kind of messy, uncomfortable, and bad situation, should be Forced to eat shit, onion, and glass, because he is a stupid idiot.
When I was racking my brains for an adverb other than "fuck", Caitlin said, "Don't you know?" Great Thomas. That's great. I think I will wait for a lifetime until you understand. Be mature, you coward. "The telephone line is broken.
I guess fucking is the only adverb.
I put on a pair of khaki shorts and a charcoal hooded sweatshirt from the University of Washington. Lacey walked into the room, handed me a cup of pink sè, and then said: "I made a smoothie for you, you know, to ease the atmosphere."
I took the cup from her, and after careful observation, I took a sip. "Strawberry banana, a good choice. Forgive yourself. However, I have to remind you that I will take you back, and the situation will be a thousand times worse than this."
I already have a plan, it is despicable, almost crazy. It's actually a demon. I can't help it, I have to win everything.
Lacey said innocently: "Aren't you using a little, little, witty girl?"
I grabbed Lacey's easel and paint bag and walked to the car. Lacey was sitting in the passenger seat, Baxter fell asleep on her lap, with a cooler beside her feet.
We proceeded along the long lane, winding through several alleys, and after five minutes I drove onto the southbound lane. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)