Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“School?” I deadpan. “Dad, you wanted me to be a plumber.”
“What’s wrong with being a plumber? It paid for this family, didn’t it? And Essie’s college. At least she took her education seriously.”
Essie has an associate’s degree in interior design. I mean, it’s more than I have, but still. He acts like she went to MIT or something.
I don’t want to have this argument. Essie’s smart, and talented, and she’s one of the hardest-working people I know. I hate that he pits us against each other because that’s not how it’s supposed to be. And I hate that she feels obligated to stick up for me because of the lie I’ve made her tell.
“And look at you! You’re living in her basement!”
Oh. This again? I point at my father. “First of all, it’s not the fuckin’ basement.”
“Steve! Your language!”
Every time I say the word ‘fuck’ in front of my mother, she acts like she’s never heard the ‘F’ word before. So I direct the rest of my response to her. “It’s not the basement. It’s the main level. I mean, what the actual fuck? How is that not obvious? That’s where the two-hundred-thousand-dollar kitchen lives.”
Granted, I have two kitchens. The second is an outdoor one on the rooftop adjacent to Essie and Mike’s guest suite, so that’s the one they use. But come on. I don’t live in the fuckin’ basement. This is a Malibu beach house. The lower level is prime real estate.
My father is not done. “That’s where the Pac-Man lives, too, Steve. That’s where the air hockey lives, and the pool table lives, and the dartboard lives. It’s like you never grew up. You’re going to be fourteen forever. And if you’re gay—”
“Dad!” Essie is standing now.
He thinks I’m gay because I don’t date. “I’m not gay, Dad. How many times do I have to tell you this?”
“Then why don’t you have a girlfriend? Did you ever consider that your mother might want grandbabies?”
I would like to point out that Essie is married—why don’t they bother her about babies? But I don’t point that out because Essie and Mike have a baby plan and it’s still three years out. We all know this.
Still, how do my parents even think it’s possible that I could meet a woman, marry her, knock her up, and give them grandbabies in less than three years?
It doesn’t even make sense. Mike and Essie’s babies are a sure thing. All Mom and Dad have to do is wait it out.
But they won’t. They just keep bringing it up. They’re just… they just… it’s just nagging. They want to nag me to death.
And of course, I would like to marry one day. I love women. I love everything that comes with loving a woman. I would like a family. The kids, the dog—all that shit. But I’m walking the edge of a knife and living a lie.
How do you date a woman while you’re living a lie? When do you admit you’ve been deceiving the entire world?
Third date?
Engagement party?
Wedding night?
Dating is pointless. And this is yet another irony. I’m rich and successful but have to pretend I’m mooching off my sister to get by. I write the hottest fucking romance books on the planet and I haven’t even been on a date in almost two years.
This is my life.
“I’m just saying…” Oh, my God, my dad is still talking. “If he’s gay, he can tell us. It’s fine, Steve.”
My mother shoots me a look of love and compassion. Which is funny. That me being gay would delight them and make everything OK. Because me not being gay seems to indicate that I’m some kind of layabout sociopath. “It really is OK, Steve, honey. I’m opening the closet door for you, sweetie.”
For fuck’s sake.
Mike stands up and smiles at everyone. “Why don’t we put on a movie?”
Everyone, including Essie, shoots him a WTF look. But he’s anti-confrontational. Changing the subject is a life goal for Mike.
So I decide to be the adult in the room and shoot my dad with my finger. “Good talk, Dad.” And then I just leave them there, mumbling and whispering—my mother telling my father to be quiet, Essie interjecting, Mike trying to change the subject.
“Six days. Six days.” I whisper this under my breath all the way down the stairs. “I can do this. I can make it six days.”
But I’m not sure I can. We’re leaving for Vegas tomorrow morning so we can get there a day early and make sure the whole thing is on track. Of course, we have hundreds of people doing most of the work for us, but when something goes wrong, they take it to Essie. Which means I have to handle it because she’s too busy playing the part of SS to manage things like seating chart complaints from all the authors.