Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
She laughs again and slaps her hand down on the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “Ha! I knew it. Hey, what was that one doll you slept with? Optimus Slime?”
Matthew is quiet for a few brooding seconds, debating his options as his sister goads him. I can practically see the steam rising from his ears.
His nostrils flare. “Prime. His name is Optimus Prime.”
“Right…” Molly shrugs, non-committed. “Remember that time you tried throwing your Warpath doll over the house, but it landed on the roof instead?”
“It’s not a doll. It’s an action figure.”
“Whatever.” Molly dismisses him with a wave of her hand, then scratches her chin as if deep in thought. “Come to think of it, wasn’t the Warpath character a vain, loud mouth, showoff? Hmm. Kind of sounds like someone else I know.”
I look at her, surprised. “How on earth do you remember that?”
“Because. Oh my gawd, he never shut up about it.”
“Alright kids, that’s enough,” Mr. Wakefield interjects, clearing his throat and setting down his fork. “Surely we can discuss something that our guest might enjoy.”
He shoots a pointed look at both his children, glancing at me briefly with a wink, his eyes crinkling at the corner and looking just like his son. I notice that, like Molly and Weston, Mr. Wakefield also has a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and friendly green eyes.
“Maybe I’ll take some of those mashed potatoes now,” I joke uncomfortably, reaching for the large, steaming bowl of mashers.
“Brown-noser,” Molly whispers next to me, jabbing me with her elbow and almost causing me to lose a heaping spoonful of spuds I’m scooping onto my plate.
“Knock it off,” I hiss, elbowing her back.
Mrs. Wakefield interrupts our bantering. “So, Cece, Molly says you’re almost done with your Masters. When do you graduate?”
“I’m actually done this December.”
“Business?”
“Yes – I have a real interest in economics as well, which is what my Bachelors is in, so I’m actually looking for an analyst position.”
“That’s fantastic. So you’re moving on then?”
I nod. “Yup. As soon as I find a more professional position, I’ll start apartment hunting.” I made a frown face at Molly, who lays her head on my shoulder in a mock pout. I put my arm around her, patting her face with my hand. “I know someone who’s going to miss me.”
Suddenly, Molly’s head shoots up and wide eyed, she looks across the table at her brother, who’s sitting directly across from me. “Umm… Dude. Did you just run your foot up my leg under the table?”
For a brief moment, Matthew has the decency to look affronted – but then that guilt turns to disbelief. “What? Why the hell would I run my foot up your leg?” He hangs his head over his plate, shoveling the food in.
Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield exchange glances.
“No, you definitely were playing footsies with me under the table.” Molly quickly scoots her chair back a few inches and sticks her head under the table. “I knew it! Why the hell is your shoe off?”
Matthew
Instead of responding, I jam a giant hunk of steak into my mouth, chewing slowly. I also don’t blink or bat an eye as Molly stares me down from her side of the table. Which is really hard to do with a mouth full of food.
Momentarily, I forget anyone else is at the table, and through narrowed eyes, shoot my hauntiest death glare at my loud mouth sister. If she’d shut her big, fat, loud mouth, no one would know I was trying to play footsies under the table with her friend in the first place.
“Matthew, please leave your sister alone. You’re twenty-three years old for pities sake,” my mom lectures. From the slight curve of her lips, I know she is on to me, too.
Molly crosses her arms and studies me. She’s quiet for a few minutes, but then, “Hey Mom. Did you know that Cece went out on a date with Neve last weekend? You should ask her how that turned out.”
I could seriously take her out to the backyard and choke her.
My mom sets down her napkin. “Oh really! I didn’t know that! How exciting! He’s such a handsome young man,” my mom gushes. It’s nauseating. “Where did he take you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from clenching my jaw: a dead giveaway to my family that I’m getting pissed. I try forking up a mouthful of mash potatoes and forcing them into my mouth, which still has meat in it, but swallowing is nearly impossible.
“We went to this little French place called Le Petit… Le Petit… Oh, shoot. I can’t remember.”
Un Petit Goût.
It was Un Petit Goût, which means A Tiny Taste.
Cecelia looks up at me questionably - as if waiting for me to jump in and fill in her blank - but I don’t. As if I can just jump in and supply the words for her; I can’t. Not out loud in front of my folks and incriminating myself… especially since my mom had already warned me against leaving Cecelia alone. So instead, I remain silent and shove yet another forkful of food in to my mouth.