Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“Yes,” the reply comes flying out, and then I do.
I pick it up, this small, easy to hide, black flip phone and whisper, “Thank you. And it’s not a piece of shit.”
And then I smile.
A small, shaky smile.
Fragile as this new thing between us.
His gaze falls to my mouth and he stares at it.
The only pink thing on my body.
“Desert Rose,” I whisper.
He looks up. “What?”
“My lipstick shade,” I explain. “That’s what it’s called. Desert Rose.”
His eyes flash. “You didn’t wear lipstick. Back when you lived at the manor.”
“I didn’t,” I tell him. “I wasn’t into makeup and stuff.”
“Just books and words.”
I jerk out a nod. “Y-yes. But I… One of my friends here, she’s great with makeup and stuff. So she taught me and…”
“And what?”
Clutching the phone to my chest, I shrug. “I thought I needed it. Tonight.”
To look pretty for him.
For his ex-best friend.
“You didn’t.”
“What?”
His features tighten up and he commands. “It’s late. Come on.”
Much like earlier in the night, he starts walking then. But this time, he’s going to the brick wall; I know it. Because he wants to help me climb over. Because he knows I don’t know how to climb.
And unlike earlier in the night, I let him.
I don’t argue. I don’t fight.
All I do is feel thankful and safe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Before we moved to Bardstown, we had a difficult life.
While my parents always struggled to make ends meet, my dad’s accident was a big blow to our family. I watched my mother pick up the slack with two — sometimes even three — jobs, without any complaints. I watched my dad being frustrated about not being able to help. And sometimes I watched them argue and fight about these things.
So I did everything that I could to make their life easier.
I did my chores on time. I did my homework on time. I went to school and came straight back. I hardly ever hung out with friends because I knew I’d have to help out at home. I knew I’d have to make dinner or do the dishes or laundry or whatnot.
And I always prided myself on that.
On being level-headed and good. On being able to take care of not only myself but also my parents when they needed it.
I mean, they took care of me, didn’t they?
So it was only fair that I took care of them as well. Because that’s what a family does. We take care of each other and we put them above our needs.
So then how did this happen?
How did it happen that my parents can barely look at me? Let alone talk to me.
I’m home for the weekend and we’re all sitting at the dining table, eating dinner. It feels like those couple of years when my dad was laid up and everything in our house was somber and depressing.
There’s very little conversation and each of us simply keeps our eyes on our plate. There’s an occasional clink of silverware, squeak of the chair, clearing of a throat but not much else.
It’s me.
I did that.
My actions from two years ago took whatever little joy my parents had and left them like this, all strained and stressed out. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better when I’m not around. I wonder if my mom and dad at least talk to each other if not to me.
As it is, no one is talking to anyone right now.
And like always, I can’t bear it.
I can’t help but try to fix it. Try to fill it with something, anything.
So I glance at my mother and go, “This is very delicious, Mom.”
She looks up — her eyes are as brown as mine; actually I’m a carbon copy of my mother, same coloring, same dirty blonde hair and a petite build — and gives me a nod. “Thanks.”
“New recipe?” I swirl the fork in my spaghetti. “I feel like you did something different with the sauce.”
And it’s delicious as always.
My mother is a wizard in the kitchen, especially with putting something delicious together with just leftovers. And she’d always try to get me interested in cooking and her recipes. I’m not as good as her but I can cook. I also have a discerning palate, thanks to being my mom’s guinea pig.
Which I think she remembers even though she has been mad at me for two years now. Because her eyes sparkle and a small but fond smile appears on her mouth. “I did, yes.”
Encouraged, I smile too. “It’s tart but not really. Like it’s sweet too.”
Her smile grows. “Is it?”
She’d always do that, test me and tease me, and when I’d get it right, she’d look at me all fondly and nod, saying that I was even better than she was at my age.
I nod, scooping up just the sauce with my spoon and tasting it. “It is. It’s so good, Mom. What’d you do?”