Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
She flashes me a tentative smile. Maybe I didn’t totally screw up in there after all. “Thanks for everything tonight.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for.”
She turns her head and studies me for a beat before turning her gaze back to the sidewalk. “I’m not sure why you’re being so nice to me. Especially after I ruined your night the way I did.”
“You didn’t, though.”
She coughs out a laugh. “If that’s true, I can say you’re the first guy I ever met who wouldn’t mind being interrupted mid-BJ.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t mind. I said it didn’t ruin my night,” I say. She cuts her eyes to me, her expression cautious, so I change the subject. “Are you from around here?”
“Nah. I grew up south of Atlanta.”
I nod. I noticed an occasional Southern lilt to her voice, but not enough to make me guess Georgia. “You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I worked really hard on that,” she says with a smile. “But really, Atlanta’s not too bad. It’s enough of a melting pot that not a lot of people have the stereotypical drawl.”
“A shame, really.”
She smirks. “You have a thing for Southern accents?”
“Not necessarily.” I shrug. “I have a thing for diversity.”
She arches a brow. “And you came to rural Pennsylvania for grad school? Bad call.”
I grunt. “No kidding. Mistakes were made.” The ring of her laughter into the dark night pulls a smile onto my lips. “I’m saying, I hope we never turn into a world where we all sound the same.”
Her expression softens. “My Gram lived in southern Alabama, and when I spent weeks with her during the summers, I’d find my words getting thick like molasses. I loved her accent, but my mom thought . . .”
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Never mind. What about you? You from around here?”
“Nope. I’m a transplant like you. I grew up in Brooklyn.”
“Well, that explains a lot. You like it there?”
I nod. “Not as much as I like Manhattan—that’s where I was born—but Mom believed a boy should have a backyard to play in, and since she didn’t think Central Park qualified, we got a place in Brooklyn.”
“She still there?”
I swallow the unexpected lump of emotion rising in my throat. “She died when I was in high school.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She wraps soft fingers around my wrist, and we slow our steps. “Shit, Oliver. I’m really so sorry.”
“It happens.”
“I didn’t mean to bring up a difficult subject.”
“I miss her.” My voice is a little too rough, and I find myself wishing she weren’t sober enough to hear the truth of my grief beneath it. “I hate that she died so young, but I can talk about her.”
She bites her bottom lip. She’s still holding my wrist. “What was she like?”
I tilt my face to the sky again and shake my head. “Fierce. When it came to me, at least. She would have done anything for her kid.”
“The best parents are like that. Was she a stay-at-home mom?”
I shake my head. “She was a nurse, but never defined by her job. She loved photography and scrapbooking and spoiling me. And journaling. She was always writing in a journal. I’d do just about anything to have those back.”
“Where are they?” she asks.
I have to swallow down the bile that rage forces into my throat. “After she died, my father took them away as a punishment. And when I lashed out, he told me he threw them into the fireplace.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
I shrug. “It’s life.”
“But your mom—she sounds great.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “What sucks is that I lost her when I was in my asshole teen years. It’s not like my last words to her were cruel or anything dramatic like that, but I’d like to think I wouldn’t have given her such a hard time if I’d known I’d lose her.”
She trails her fingers from my wrist down to my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before pulling away. I liked her touching me, or maybe I liked the fact that she understood I needed that connection when talking about my mom—something I haven’t done this openly since arriving in Crossport two years ago.
“So, it’s just you and your dad?” she asks.
I cough out a shocked laugh before I can stop myself. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Fuck no.”
“No love lost there?” She steps off the sidewalk and leans her hip against a bench.
“Nope.” I glance across the street then back to her. She’s stopped walking half a block from Chuck’s, but I’m not going to call her on it. “He wasn’t around much when I was a kid. Turns out, I preferred it that way.”
“I hear you on that.” She tucks her hands into her pockets and looks down at her heels. We’ve only walked a few blocks, but her feet have to be killing her. “My dad was around way too much for my liking.”