Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
“Everyone wants me, huh?”
I look at the stack of envelopes she digs out of a cupboard underneath.
“Or your tuition money,” she tells me.
Everyone laughs, my dad snorting.
My grandpa simply tips his chin at me. He sees me pretty regularly.
My mom hugs me tightly. “Please tell me you’re staying.”
I pull back, looking down at her. “A couple of hours.”
She drops her eyes, hesitating before she turns away and gets busy filling a bowl with something savory.
I hover over her, seeing beef stew. “Ooh, smells good.” I reach for the bowl. “Gimme.”
But I see her lips tremble.
“Please don’t,” I whisper, looking into her eyes and the tears she’s holding back. “I’ll be home soon. Just let me finish what I started, okay? I promise.”
“Don’t forget you have us, okay?”
Her jaw flexes, and I can tell she’s trying to control herself. My mom has never been much of a crier. Most of the time she never had a reason to be.
“I won’t,” I tell her.
I smile and take a spoon as she hands me the bowl, and I head to the island to sit next to my grandpa.
“You eating enough?” Dad asks. “Not fast food, right?”
“No, we’re cooking.”
“We?” Mom inquires.
I glace at A.J. sorting my mail, checking off boxes on a spreadsheet she has pinned to her clipboard.
“Um, Farrow,” I finally spit out. “Farrow Kelly. He’s a senior, too, but a year older. Grandpa installed him in the house as a chaperone, I’m pretty sure.”
I glance at Ciaran, but he just eats.
“Have I met him?” Mom asks.
I fill the spoon with stew. “You should,” I say, throwing my double meaning out there for my grandfather to pick up.
He simply clears his throat and holds out his bowl to my mom. “May I have some more, please?”
He flashes me a scowl, and I spoon in another mouthful.
“So…senator?” I look to my dad. “That’s going to make me get a haircut, isn’t it?”
I thought being mayor of Shelburne Falls would be enough, but I spotted an article online mentioning him for next year’s election. To be fair, he has discussed it with me. I just hoped he wasn’t serious.
“If I have to wear pantsuits,” my mom chimes in, “you’re at least getting a trim.”
“Are you kidding?” Dad teases. “The only reason I’m in politics is to see your ass in pantsuits.” He puts an arm around my grandfather. “Your daughter has the nicest…”
“Shut up, ya gobshite,” Ciaran growls.
I break down mid-bite, shaking with laughter with everyone else.
A.J. giggles, repeating the curse. “Gobshite.”
“Greeeat.” Mom gives Grandpa a dirty look. “Thanks a lot.”
She turns off the stove and then pushes a cutting board filled with sliced French bread toward me. This is how we often ate as a family. The dining room sits through the doorway to my right, but we only used it on special occasions and holidays. Every other time, we ate at the small table to my left, or here at the island, some days just shoveling in food while standing next to the stove.
I loved it.
We were busy, one parent or the other always rushing off to take one of us to a music lesson or sports practice, and they had full-time careers on top of that. There was no pressure to uphold the façade of always having everything under control, and it meant that the older we got, the more freedom we had, because what we really wanted most after a certain point was privacy. I didn’t want to tell them about my day every evening over dinner, feeling pressured to lie and say I was “fine” when I didn’t want to tell them the truth either. I didn’t want forced conversation and questions because being involved is what they thought made a healthy family. When my friends were lying to their parents, mine were the only thing that was easy for me.
After cleaning my bowl and stacking my dishes in the dishwasher, I walk upstairs. Opening the door to my room, I head to the closet and pull out my suit, still sealed inside the garment bag the tailor delivered it to us in. Kade has several. Dad loves suits and always made sure we had one to wear for impromptu occasions, but I haven’t worn this one yet.
I open it up, checking the size of the jacket and pants.
And I hang it back up.
I was fitted for it a year and a half ago. It won’t fit me now. It’s not like Dylan will care what I wear to a school dance anyway.
But I will.
I turn my head, gazing at my bed and seeing that the navy-blue comforter rests at the bottom in a zigzag fold, the tan coverlet pulled up over the pillows at the head.
I don’t make my bed like that. Neither do my parents or the house cleaners they bring in to help. I know they have my sheets washed every few weeks, in case I show up.