Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“It’s a little complicated.” I pick up one of the glasses in front of me and take a hefty gulp.
“I’m the queen of complicated. Hit me with it.”
I bite the end of my tongue for a few seconds, debating. “It’s pretty messed up.”
“That’s okay. I’m pretty messed up too. How about this: you tell me why you’re getting drunk, and I’ll tell you why I’m a mess, aside from the fact that I lost a job.” She holds up her pinkie finger. “And we can pinkie swear that whatever we tell each other tonight, we’ll take to the grave.”
I link my pinkie with hers, and again, that jolt of energy hits me. Like the static in the air that comes with a thunderstorm. “A secret for a secret?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay.” I nod once and blow out a breath. It’s probably easier to tell a stranger this than it is to tell someone close to me. I bend so my mouth is close to her ear and say quietly, “I found out my sister is actually my mom.”
Queenie leans back and rapid blinks several times in a row. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“My sister is actually—”
She waves her hand in the air. “I heard you. Oh my God. I don’t even know what to say to that. Are you . . . okay? Never mind. That’s a stupid question. Obviously you’re not okay. Do you want to . . . talk about it?”
“Uh, not really. Is that okay?” I almost feel bad that I don’t want to share more, especially since she’s expressing genuine concern. I do feel a little better about the whole thing, considering her shock and empathetic expression.
“Of course it’s okay. It also totally explains why you have a line of drinks in front of you.” She chews the inside of her lip. “I feel like my secret is kind of lame in comparison.”
“I’m sure it’s not. And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” I won’t be the least bit surprised if she finishes her second martini and leaves, considering my revelation.
“I want to. Tell you, I mean.” She slurps her second martini and exhales a long breath. “I have dependency issues.”
“On alcohol?”
She laughs again. “God, I love you.” Her eyes flare. “I don’t mean that literally. I just mean you’re cute. The things you say, just . . . anyway . . . I’m not dependent on alcohol, apart from at this moment. I’m dependent on my dad.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, is it?”
Queenie pops another olive in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “He was only twenty when I was born, and he ended up having to raise me on his own. So lots of trial and error in the whole how to deal with raising a kid alone, you know? And I’m really good at messing things up, and he’s really good at bailing me out every single time, so I’ve perpetuated that dependency, and he sort of inadvertently feeds it.” Her nose scrunches up. “Sorry, I’m basically unloading all my baggage on you, and you already seem to have enough of your own to deal with.”
“Please don’t apologize. It’s good to know I’m not the only one with problems.”
“I’ve never actually admitted that out loud before, so it kind of feels good to unload it, even if it’s with a virtual stranger, if that makes sense.”
“It does. Make sense, I mean.” I feel like fate has obviously thrown us together tonight for a reason, so I decide I’m willing to share a little more. “I’m actually the product of a teen pregnancy too. My biological father wasn’t in the picture, and my grandparents decided it would be best if they raised me as theirs to give my sister . . . mom . . . and me a better chance at a normal life.”
“So I guess that means we both have mommy issues.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” I agree.
“You know what we should do, Ryan?” There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes, the kind I might have shied away from before today.
“What’s that?”
“You game for getting drunk and forgetting about our mommy issues, at least for tonight?”
“I’m game.”
She pushes my scotch toward me and clinks her glass against mine. “After we knock back all your drinks, we can do shots.”
My head is pounding.
The last time I had a hangover like this, I was seventeen years old.
I crack a lid and groan when the light streaming through my bedroom window hits my eyeballs. I drag my hand down my face and freeze.
Because it smells like sex.
I glance to the right, noting the rumpled sheets and the head-dented pillow. I roll over—which makes me nauseous—and breathe in the sweet scent of vanilla shampoo.
Queenie.
After we polished off all my drinks, we did shots. Which, based on how I’m feeling right now, was definitely not a good idea.