Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Boy? She said he was a man.”
“She meant it figuratively.”
“How tall is this kid?” Dad asks me, as if Jack’s height has any significance.
“Um, like six four?”
“Six four!” Dad shouts. “That’s it, we’re coming up. I want to meet this guy. Don’t make plans this weekend.”
“Because he’s tall?”
Mom continues laughing in the background as my father loses his cool.
“He’s six four—what were they feeding him in England?”
“He drinks a lot of tea?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. From what I’ve seen, he drinks tons of tea.”
I’m still laughing and so is Mom, to the point where neither of us can speak. Mom is barely breathing she’s laughing so hard.
“You know what, I’m done with both of you,” Dad manages to grumble, not done with either of us.
He remains on the line.
“Oh John, don’t be salty.”
“Yeah Dad, don’t be salty,” I mimic with a chuckle. “Anyway guys, I thought you should know my living arrangements changed, but I’m still in all the same classes and still living my best life.”
Sort of.
“I’m still coming this weekend. Don’t make plans.”
“If you keep saying it, I’m going to believe it.” His words are a mere threat; I know my father, and he’s not going to make the three-hour drive north to meet some random dude because he’s too tall for his liking.
He’s bluffing. My dad is the kind of dad who would prefer (if he had his choice) to have me bring Jack down to their house—if I had a car to drive home in, that is.
I couldn’t tell you the last time my parents visited me at school.
“Tell me more about this boy,” Mom finally says once she’s done giggling. “Is he cute?”
“Gretchen!” Dad chastises with a loud huff. “That’s it, leave me out of this conversation. I’m going upstairs.”
There’s more laughter, then Mom repeats her question.
“Yes, he’s cute,” I admit reluctantly.
“What’s his accent like?”
I sigh. “You know, your normal British accent.”
“Lord.” She sighs. “I bet all the girls go crazy for it.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“How bad was it with Kaylee?”
“Pretty bad. But honestly, Mom, she’s dating a few other people—I don’t know why she’s making such a huge fuss about this.”
Mom sighs again. “Girls can be cruel, especially when a man is involved.”
True. “I’m just lucky I had somewhere to go. I can’t imagine where I’d be right now if Jack hadn’t offered me a room in his house.”
“What’s it like compared to the place you were in? That little house was adorable—I can’t imagine anything better.”
“I couldn’t have imagined anything better either, but this house is. It’s like twice the size—actual grownups lived here. I don’t think it’s ever been student housing before his parents rented it. His brother lived here before he moved back to the UK.”
“Does he have any other siblings?”
“I don’t think so? I don’t actually know—we haven’t sat and talked about it.”
“So besides that, what is he like? Does he pick up after himself?”
“Yeah, he’s good about picking up after himself so far. There’s a laundry room so we dump our stuff there.”
“Oh lovely, you have a washer and dryer.”
I had one at my old place, but they were small and stackable and didn’t hold a ton of laundry, which wasn’t all that convenient.
“You said he plays rugby?” Mom goes on with the questions.
“Does. Did. It’s a long story, but he hates it and isn’t great at it, so he faked an injury during his last match and I think he’s planning to quit.”
That gives Mom pause. “I’m sorry, what?”
I laugh. “In a nutshell, he joined the team because his brother was on it, and it sounds like he wants to do everything his big brother does. He hasn’t come out and said that specifically, but that’s the impression I get.”
“Aww, that’s cute,” Mom coos. “Send me his picture.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t have his picture.”
“What’s his name? I’ll google him.”
“Mother, you are not going to internet-stalk my roommate.”
“I have every right to know who my kid is living with!” she argues. “Unless you actually want Dad and me to come up and meet him in person.”
Gauntlet thrown. “Ugh, fine. His name is Jack Dryden-Jones. It’s hyphenated.”
“Oo-la-la. I love that,” she says, and I can hear her typing it out. There’s another long silence as she searches the web for Jack, probably clicking away at her laptop while she has me on speakerphone. “Is his brother’s name Ashley?”
“Yes.”
“I think I found him.” Pause. “Oh Eliza, he’s so handsome.”
“I know.” I groan, feeling miserable about how good-looking Jack is and how I’m not allowed to fall in love with him.
“How are you going to live with him and not get a crush on him?” Mom wonders out loud, no doubt scrolling and scrolling through photo after photo of Jack and whatever other pictures she finds with lord knows who.
It’s far too late for that, but I keep that information to myself, along with the kiss and the flirting and the other kiss, and the flirting.