Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Not that any of it had mattered because I didn’t think Father Jude had glanced my way one single time that day. I hadn’t even gotten a brief flick of his eyes in my direction. No recognition in the slightest that I had come to Mass.
Among the palm branches—which we all had carried, including me, since Mary had shoved one into my hands—I had barely caught a glimpse of him as he led the crowd outside in a line into the church as they waved their branches. Mary had pressed her lips together to keep from giggling every time our eyes met.
Then, Father Jude had stood up on the stage or platform, altar—hell, I didn’t know what they called it—wearing a red robe. He read from the Bible, and then he had begun reciting lines about Jesus’s arrest, stopping to allow the congregation to repeat it. This happened until they got to the part about Jesus’s death. It was all so bizarre.
When it was done, I had thought I might speak to him or he would seek me out to say welcome or, heck, whatever priests said to visitors. But a swarm of people lined up to speak to him as if he were a celebrity. I gave it longer than I should have for him to possibly turn to look my way. But after five minutes, I’d said my goodbyes to Mary and left.
The pitcher of margaritas I’d had by the pool the rest of that day while I worked on my tan helped the snub. If only the lime, sugar, salt, and tequila could have washed Father Jude from my memory.
That had been ten days ago, and he was still in my thoughts.
I needed a purpose in life.
Something to do. A hobby. A job. Maybe move off to college somewhere. I could try going to class. That would take some intense begging and convincing with my parents, but…heck, I’d even go to Louisiana and live with Fia while attending the college she’d gone to. I considered that for a minute. No, we’d kill each other. I hated homework and writing papers. Scratch that.
Back to a job or hobby. What did I like to do?
I slowly pulled the spoonful of sunflower butter out of my mouth as I stared out the back patio doors that overlooked the pool area. Was it bad that I didn’t know what I liked to do?
Yes. It was pathetic. Sad. Eye-opening.
In three weeks, I would be twenty-two years old. I had been able to legally drink for a year, and I didn’t know what I liked to do. If I was good at anything. What if I wasn’t? I stuck the spoon back into the jar. How was it possible that I had made it twenty-two years and didn’t have any idea who I was?
Was that it? I was a rich man’s spoiled daughter, who had been given everything. I had never worked a job, never had a hobby other than shopping, tanning, and Netflix. There was no depth to me. Nothing admirable.
And Crosby had met a girl with a job, who had dreams, knew what she enjoyed, had different layers, and he’d found something to admire. Respect. He was attracted to her because she knew who she was. Unlike me. Who had survived to please him, be with him, do what he wanted, go where he wanted.
While I’d been his lap dog, she’d been an exotic bird.
I did not want to be a lap dog. I wanted to be someone’s exotic bird, dammit.
“Please tell me there is an unopened jar of sunflower butter in the pantry,” my mother said as she walked into the kitchen, wearing her white-and-gold Versace bathrobe, Hermès slides, and her terry-cloth hair wrap from Target.
I stuck the spoonful in my mouth and replied, “Nope,” while my tongue worked the creamy goodness free.
She sighed and placed a hand on her hip while giving me a disapproving look. “Really, Saylor? You have to eat it right out of the jar?”
I swallowed, then licked my lips. “I’d like to remind you that I am the one with the nut allergy in this house. Eat the peanut butter.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Well, I am going through menopause, and I need to cut all the calories I can. Besides, it tastes better than peanut butter.”
My mother had never been fat a day in her life. She was forty-seven and looked like she was in her thirties. She’d never even been thick. Heck, the pictures of when she had been pregnant, she’d still looked fabulous. I had no sympathy.
“There is that sugar-free jam and fake butter in the fridge you can put on your toast.”
Mom huffed as she went to jerk open the left side of the refrigerator. “We have got to hire a new cook. Luciana retiring and leaving us is just unfair. I miss her egg white omelets.”