Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“No baby tonight?” Lo asks, leaning a hip against the counter.
Blonde Girl inhales deeply. “My mom’s in town. It’s our first time leaving him. I don’t know who’s more worried, Ash or me.” She looks over toward the couch at the guy she was sitting on before who’s sitting there bouncing his knee as he takes a swig from his beer. “Twenty bucks says he’s going to check the time on his phone in five, four, three, two…”
Sure enough, he digs into his black jeans pocket before pulling his phone out and flipping it over, glaring at the screen.
“Wow.” Lo laughs. “Daddy Asher is not fucking around.”
“I’m Briar, by the way,” she says to me, her smile as warm and bright as fucking sunshine.
“Allison,” I say, shaking her hand.
“Where’s Dare?” Lo questions, scanning the living room. There’s a guy in swim shorts with tattoos from his neck to his ankles, another guy who looks like him without as many tattoos, and a couple of brunettes, but no Dare in sight.
“Do you really have to ask?” Briar laughs, grabbing another beer from the fridge. “He’s hiding upstairs.”
I’m not the least bit surprised by that. Dare is about as sociable as I am. The only difference is, he doesn’t try to be polite about it. He’s unapologetically anti-social.
Briar returns to her spot on the guy’s lap, and I almost laugh at the sight. It’s like seeing an angel perched atop the Grim Reaper. A really attractive Grim Reaper.
“I’ll be right back,” Lo says, heading for the stairs. I nod, standing awkwardly at the counter for all of ten seconds before I decide to head out back for some fresh air. I slip out the sliding door unnoticed, the cool night air hitting my face. Spring is coming, but the nights are still cold. Thankfully, no one else is out here. I rub the chill out of my upper arms, walking across the deck to the set of table and chairs. I scroll through my phone and see a missed call from my mom. I stare at the notification for a minute before finally tapping on it. I’m surprised when she answers almost instantly.
“Hi, honey,” she says in that sing-song voice of hers.
“Hi, Mom. You called?” I pluck a bottle cap from the table, absentmindedly spinning it.
“How’s school? How are you liking the lake house?”
Alarm bells ring in my mind. My mom doesn’t do small talk unless she wants something.
“It’s fine.” It’s not like I need to lie to my mom about where I’m staying. What can she do from Hawaii? But for reasons I don’t even want to analyze, I don’t want her knowing. It’s easier this way.
“That’s nice,” she croons. “Can you hear the waves?” she asks. “It’s so peaceful here.”
“Mhm.” I won’t make the mistake of inviting myself there again. I wait for her to get to the point of the phone call, but when she asks generic question after generic question, I start to think maybe she really did just call to check in and see how things are going. That maybe this is her making a genuine effort. My mom and I, despite our monumental differences, are…fine. Not particularly tight, but not necessarily distant either. She loves me in her own way. I never doubted that. We just don’t click. My dad and I clicked. We were two peas in a pod from day one. But now, with all things considered, if she’s trying, then maybe I should, too.
I relax, leaning my back against the canvas cushion of the chair, propping my Docs up on the edge of the table. “How’s Hawaii?” I ask, then cringe at my lame attempt at making conversation.
“It’s perfect,” she says with a dreamy voice, and I try to ignore the way my stomach twists at her words. Perfect. As in, she’s perfectly happy without me. “I do need a favor, though.”
And there it is.
“What?” I ask tightly, my guard creeping back into place like a coat of armor.
“I seem to have misplaced my divorce papers,” she says sheepishly. I roll my eyes. My mom lost something? How unlike her.
“Shocker.”
“I was thinking, when you go through—”
“I told you I’m not ready to go through Dad’s things yet,” I snap, feeling myself shutting back down at the direction this conversation has taken. My dad’s entire life has been reduced to a pile of boxes in my grandparents’ garage. I know I need to go through them, but every time I think I’m ready, something holds me back.
Mom sighs, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose. I can almost bet that she’ll be self-medicating her impending “migraine” in the form of a joint right after this phone call. “Allie, it’s been almost a year. It’s time. I know you don’t like talking about him, but you have to heal, baby. I miss him, too.”