Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Warm fuzzies, or bumping uglies?”
“Both.”
“What’s his deal anyway?” I can’t deny I’m a little intrigued––regretfully.
“Who, Reagan?” Zoe clarifies and I nod. “Sounds like someone’s nursing a cru-hush.”
This earns her an exaggerated eye roll. I’m not crushing on anyone. It’s a mild interest. A fleeting curiosity. I haven’t entertained a legit crush since the third grade. I had one long-term boyfriend in high school and we parted ways as friends because we were both smart enough to understand that there was a life to be lived out there, somewhere, and hanging on to each other would’ve only held us back. Since then I’ve had one thing on my mind and one thing only. Get my film degree. Live my dream.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I one hundred percent agree. I fully support your mancrush.” She raises a manicured hand, stacks of skinny sparkly rings on her long fingers. “He can run me over anytime.”
“I don’t have the time for a crush. I have two years and just enough money saved up to graduate. It’s that he’s been super eager about giving me rides to class since the accident and I want to make sure I don’t need to invest in pepper spray and a set of brass knuckles.”
She snorts. “He’s a good guy. I’ve seen him with a couple of different girls in the last two years, but not the worst by far in that crew.” A sneaky smile appears. “And FYI, I have a Taser gun in the glove compartment in case you ever need it.”
Zoe pulls the G wagon into the trailer park. Yes, there’s a trailer park in Malibu. Granted, it’s rather ritzy for a trailer park. The trailers look more like cute little bungalows. Some famous people even live there from time to time. Still a trailer park, though.
“We’re going to the next home game,” she tells me. “If you’re going to be here for the next two years, you should at least see one.”
In a momentary bout of madness I picture Reagan Reynolds in a Speedo. “I’ll think about it.”
I knock on the sliding glass door to my aunt’s royal blue trailer with white trim and get no response. The minute I let myself in her scarlet macaw squawks. That bird hates me. I’m no bird expert but I’m almost positive he’s hurling parrot profanity.
A voice coming from the back room breaks into the squawking. “Oh, don’t…no, don’t do that. Goodness’ sake…”
“Aunt Peg?”
“Alice? Is that you?”
“Hi.”
“Back here, sweetie, I’m watching the Outlander.”
In the den I find her seated in her favorite armchair. My aunt Peg is a big, beautiful woman and her home and clothing definitely reflect her style––a mash-up of seventies Hawaiian prints and eighties fluorescent colors. Somehow she makes it work.
Unlike me, she’s a real girly girl. She works from home as a virtual assistant and yet she’s got on a full face of meticulously applied makeup, her red chin-length bob is perfectly blown out, and she’s wearing what can only be described as a very fancy caftan in a jungle print.
Smiling brightly, she stands to her full five-eleven height and sashays over to me with open arms. Then her head whips around, something on the television screen catching her attention. “What a little brat that daughter is.”
I’m fairly certain she’s speaking to the television. Aunt Peg does that a lot. Her smile dies as her gaze falls to my crutches. Hugging me, my face buried between her breasts, my senses drowning in roses and vanilla, she rocks us side to side. “That bad, huh?”
“I can’t put any weight on it.”
She pulls out a kitchen chair and pats it. “Have a seat. We’ll have Wheels take a look.” She makes her way to the refrigerator. “Want something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
“No soda?”
“No…I try to eat healthy.”
Grabbing a pitcher filled with water out of the refrigerator, she sets it on the table before opening the cabinets to retrieve a couple of glasses. No sooner has she set those down that she opens the window right behind her chair at the kitchen table. “Wheels!” she shouts. “Alice is here and she banged up her ankle. Come take a look.”
“Aunt Peg, I don’t think––”
She purses her bow-shaped lips and waves her polished red nails at me. “Don’t be shy. He worked for the Dallas Cowboys as the team doctor, knows a thing or two. He can tell you what’s wrong with it.” Joining me at the table, she regards me with an indecipherable look on her face. “How’s your father?”
The way my father tells it the nine-year age gap between my aunt and dad was a big enough difference that they grew up virtual strangers. Then, at seventeen, Aunt Peg ran off to California to join a hippie commune and that was the last they heard of her for a good long time. That was, until she was arrested for dealing pot and sent to the “big house”(my father’s words) for five years.