Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Ha. Like Sally would allow that. I’ll buy you some time,” he adds, his tone turning serious.
“Yeah, I’ll need it,” I mutter, not meaning to.
“Are you having problems with his mum? Is she making things difficult?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. She’s worried, but she’s just trying to protect him.” And herself, I think.
“That’s understandable.”
“Tee, what if he doesn’t like me? What if he thinks I’m an arsehole?”
“All kids think their dads are arseholes sometimes, don’t they? I mean, I’m not a dad, but I remember ours. As awesome as he was while we were growing up, I thought he was the biggest loser sometimes. It’s a rite of passage to think your parents were put on this earth to make your life difficult. But you know what? If you’re ever stuck, I reckon you just have to ask yourself what Dad would’ve done in that situation, then do that. He and Mum did all right.”
“I just worry. What if he just—”
“You know what? Mum has always said you can charm the birds from the trees. Looks like you’d better get cheeping, little birdy. While you’re at it, you’d better ring your agent and tell her what’s going on.”
“This has got fuck all to do with her?”
“Well, you’re not there, for a start. Think about it, Tee. The movie people signed up a single bloke, a model with a growing following.”
“They won’t care. There are a hundred blokes just like me out there. It’s not like I’m a big name—”
“Yet.”
“Male models don’t get the same amount of press as the women do.” Thankfully.
“And honestly, Tee? I really don’t give a fuck about it anymore.” All my life, I’ve bounced from one thing to the next without really thinking about what I wanted. Which is funny because now I don’t need to think about it. I just know.
We end our call with Rafferty promising he’ll report back to Mum with some vague shit of a description as to our conversation. Meanwhile, I do my bit as I point my camera to the sky and take a quick pic of the pre-sunset washed orange clouds. Opening the ’gram, I type an asinine tagline. My favourite colour is sunset, but then I delete it, retyping, My favourite colour is orange.
Because you know what? It is now.
I check the time and decide I’ll give it another fifteen minutes before I go and make a nuisance of myself over the other side of the hedge. Maybe if I annoy her enough, Kennedy might throw herself at me.
A man can wish. And a man fucking does.
Now I sound like that many faced bloke off Game of Thrones, the one with a roomful of faces. Maybe I’m behaving like him, too. Hiding shit, at least. But something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate a grand gesture at this point. Speaking of, I transferred some money to her bank account today. It’s hardly a grand gesture and more like a mediocre one. Just a few of the many tens of thousands I owe her. The very least of what I owe her. I’m kind of reluctant to send more because she’s so fiercely independent I’m worried that if she finds out money isn’t an issue for me that it’ll frighten her. That she’ll worry I’ll use it to take Wilder away somehow. There’s also the chance she’ll resent me. She’s been doing it tough these past eight years, working hard to provide. Meanwhile, I’ve been swanning around doing pretty much whatever the hell I wanted.
I’d be annoyed at me if the roles were reversed.
I’ll make it up to her the minute she lets me, make it up to her in both word and deed. You know, once she gets over her need to avoid the topic of her and me, which she currently manages with the precision of a brain surgeon.
And God help them both when my family finds out because they’ll descend like a flock of noisy birds. Wilder’s about to get uncles and aunts and cousins and a grandmother who’ll want to spoil him rotten. And whether Kennedy likes it or not, she’ll be roped into that great love smothering. And honestly, I’m not sure her prickly little self will like it. But at least we Philipses always have wine on hand—not the boxed shit, either—so that’s got to help.
It’ll all come good, I think to myself with a frown. I mean, it’ll have to.
“Hey.”
I’m jerked from my introspection by a childish voice, my knee hitting the little metal table with a muttered, “Ah, fuck!” From four legs to two, the table does a little jig before upending itself with a tinny bang!
My own eyes stare back at me. And, well, fucking great—fantastic! My first ever interaction with my kid, and the best I can come up with is ah, fuck?