Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“And your mom.”
“Yup, just me and my mom—always has been, since, you know…my dad left.”
Most people ask what happened to my dad—or sperm donor, as I started calling him when I realized what a piece of shit he actually was—and I hope Kip isn’t one to pry.
He is.
“You said your dad left, but what happened? Did he die?”
“No, nothing like that, although I’m sure my mom wishes that were the case. Haha.”
“Hey, sue me for asking. You seem fixated on death for some reason, so I thought maybe that was why.”
He has a very good point. “My birth father and mom were never married, and he took off when I was little; I don’t remember him being around. After he left, we lived with my grandparents for a while.”
“Ah, I see.”
Yeah.
“So what’s your mom do?”
“Like, what’s her job?”
“Yeah.”
“She…” I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “She’s a bartender. And she waitresses.”
I wait for the awkward pause that usually follows that statement, but it never comes. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t embarrass me that my mother is a bartender and waitress—it’s other people who get all weird and judgmental about it.
Especially women her age, ones with husbands and families and minivans and carpools. That was never my mother, never us. We never had the money for that kind of life—barely had the money for me to play sports or join clubs.
Always just squeaking by.
I was left alone a lot. Not only did my mom work a lot when I was growing up, she couldn’t afford babysitters or whatever. Taking every available extra hour, working overtime to pay the rent and utilities, at the same time saving for my college education.
“Damn, do you ever get to see her?”
“Sure I get to see her. I mean, not a ton…not really.” If I’m being honest, my mom works way too much and I rarely get to spend time with her. “I, uh, I’m here on a partial scholarship, so…” The sentence trails off. “And I was just awarded a grant from the engineering department.”
“Is that your major? Engineering?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Civil.” I pause. “Does that sound boring?”
“No—not at all.” He reaches over and turns down the volume on his radio. “So you have a partial, and a grant, and your mom busts her ass to pay for the rest.”
“Exactly.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?” Somehow I doubt it. I glance at Kip out of the corner of my eye, at the leather and chrome interior of his luxury vehicle, the branded logo on the sleeve of his pricey sweatshirt, not to mention his little slice of suburban heaven tucked away in a high-end neighborhood.
For a caveman, Sasquatch sure has expensive shit.
If he senses me eyeballing him, casing my surroundings, he chooses not to mention it.
“What’s your major?” I ask out of polite curiosity.
“Economics.”
“Wow. Really?” I’m sincerely surprised.
“Yeah. Business and economics seem to be in my future.”
That’s an odd way of putting it. “Why is that?”
“Family business.”
“I see. Do you have a choice?”
“Kind of, but not really.” A master of deflecting, Kip changes the subject as he slows down when we near the edge of campus.
“Have you ever lived in the dorms?” I cock a brow.
“Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
Shrug. “My parents wanted me off campus.”
That makes no sense. From my experience, most parents keep their kids on campus as long as they can—at least, that’s what my mom wanted.
“Why?”
Instead of answering, he shrugs.
Kip measures his words. “It’s complicated.”
“Then I’m not going to ask.”
“Thanks.”
I catch a smile, a flash of his straight, white teeth. “You should smile more.”
“I smile plenty.” His face scrunches up, lip furled.
“You really don’t though.”
“Sure I do—you just have to catch it at the right moment. Sometimes you don’t see it happening.”
“Because of all the hair on your face?”
“Correct.”
Despite myself, I take him in, his whiskers highlighted by the sunlight streaming into the driver’s side window and through the windshield.
“Don’t girls get whisker burn from your face?”
A short laugh. “No.”
Pfft. “Yeah right.”
“I’d have to kiss one for that to happen.”
“You haven’t kissed a girl?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Oh.” Ohhh… “Now it all makes more sense.”
“What does?”
“You being into guys.”
He shoots me a quick glance, brows furrowed. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Yeah, I know that wasn’t what he meant, but it’s fun to tease him. He’s so serious.
My laugh fills the cab of his SUV. “You should see the look on your face—you look like a serial killer.” One who’s not amused.
“Ha ha.”
“I would have said Bigfoot instead, but that seems too obvious.”
“I do get that one a lot.”
“Figured. That’s why I went with serial killer, although you don’t really look like one of those, either. You’re too tall.”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl, and it’s so loud it fills the sudden silence.
Of course it does.
“You hungry?”
There is no denying it when my stomach rumbles again. “Uh, kind of.”