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)
The white denim miniskirt I borrowed from Zoe rides up. It becomes practically nonexistent once I’m fully on the bed. Trying not to draw too much attention to it, I fight with the hem.
“Having trouble with your skirt?”
If I can leave with just a little piece of my dignity intact tonight, it’ll be a miracle. “It’s not mine,” says the part of me that has no problem throwing Zoe under the bus to preserve even a smidge of it. And I am this close to adding, “I don’t know how it got on me.”
He takes another sip of his beer as he studies me. “How is it?”
“Too short.”
“I mean the ankle.”
“Oh. Better. Not as swollen.” I wiggle my bare toes that are poking out from the ACE bandage. “That doesn’t hurt anymore.” Female laughter drifts in, the sound of footsteps walking past his door.
“I thought the room before yours was the bathroom.” An involuntary smile spreads across my face.
“It’s Cole’s bedroom,” he casually informs me, not at all aware of where I’m going with it.
“Mmmyeah.” My face gets warm.
He eyeballs my profile and a crooked grin comes and goes. “Did Cole have company?”
“Mmmyeah.”
“More than one?”
I nod slowly. “An image that will stay with me forever.”
He chuckles and I flush to the roots of my hair. His amusement fades. It blends into a tension-filled silence. I’ve never felt at a disadvantage around him before.
Annoyed? Definitely. Amused? A lot. Vulnerable? Not till now.
Unable to bear it for very long, I find myself bridging the silence by babbling. “Why do you guys have the same dolphin tattoo?”
He makes a face. His mouth puckers. “It’s a shark…a shark, Bailey. As in Malibu Sharks water polo.”
Laughter builds in my chest, dying to come out. “But it’s got a cute little bottle nose.”
“It’s a man eater with razor-sharp teeth.” He fake chomps the air.
“The game was a lot of fun today. It was very…” What’s the word that won’t get me in trouble? “Dynamic.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles. At me, it sounds like.
“It’s exhausting just watching. You must be in great shape. I mean, you are in great shape, obviously. What I meant was aerobically. Like…you must have good lungs.”
Good lungs? Wtf, Bailey?? Just shut up.
“Was this your first sporting event?”
I swear there’s laughter in that question. Hidden, but it’s there. “Give me a little cred, would you. I went to a football game once.”
A coy smile appears. “I’m flattered.”
“I didn’t say I went to watch you.”
“But we both know you did,” he responds without missing a beat.
Shaking my head, I chew on my lower lip to impede the grin parting my lips. My attention returns to the screen, where more of the home movie plays.
“That was your brother today…at the game?” He nods. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He exhales audibly. “Yeah. Me too.”
The importance of the moment is not lost on me. He’s trusting me and I need to tread carefully. I don’t want my sympathy to be misconstrued for pity. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t appreciate it. Hence, I carefully contemplate my words before speaking, clear my throat, and start.
“How long has he––”
“Since high school––” he says beating me to the finish line, his gaze far away as the movie ends and the screen goes dark. “A long time.”
“Your parents must be worried sick.” Which is entirely true. Whose parents wouldn’t be anxiety ridden over a son being a drug addict and, judging by Reagan’s brother’s appearance, living on the streets.
Reagan snickers. There’s no real humor in it, though. It’s dark and cynical and makes me dread whatever else he’s about to say. “They were worried. For about a minute. They tried to fix the problem and when their best efforts failed they gave up on him.”
“They gave up on him? What do you mean?”
Releasing a heavy sigh, he looks out the large window. It makes me wonder what he’s looking for. Relief? Answers? A moment’s respite from all the heavy feelings? I don’t know, can’t say for sure, but when his attention returns to me he looks tired.
“They forced him into rehab three times. It was easy while he was still a minor. But then he turned eighteen and they, uh…they gave up.” Lost in thought, he shakes his head. “Stopped trying to get through to him. They threatened to have him arrested if he came by the house…cut him out of the family like he was already dead to them.”
My hand automatically moves to cover my mouth. “That’s…” I eat my words, not sure what’s okay to say or not say. I’m appalled that anyone would do that to their own son. But does he want to hear that I think his parents are monsters? Probably not.
“Fucked up,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’re close? With your brother?”
“Used to be.”
A commiserative silence falls between us.