Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
I also can’t deny it stings that Dad’s new daughters sleep in my room.
Excited shrieks greet me in the front hall. Two dark-haired tornadoes spiral toward me, and then two sets of arms curl around my legs like greedy tentacles.
“Cassie!”
They’re both screaming my name as if they didn’t just see me in the spring. Honestly, it’s great for my ego. I give them an enthusiastic bear hug, but Monique is hopping around, so excited to see me, that she loses her footing and ends up teetering out of the three-way hug, falling to the floor onto her butt. Her sister Roxanne starts hooting with laughter.
I tug Mo to her feet. “Hey, squirts,” I say. “How’s life?”
“Life. Is. Awful,” announces Roxy, the ringleader of the two. Both my sisters possess sweet, lovable temperaments, but Roxanne is definitely bossier, always speaking in a more authoritative tone. She’s the elder by two minutes and takes that role very seriously. Even if she didn’t have that tiny birthmark on her left cheekbone that allows me to tell them apart, I’d know Roxy just based on her tone of voice.
“And why is it awful?” I ask, fighting a smile.
“You tell her,” Mo says, as if Roxy wasn’t going to do it anyway.
“Mama won’t get us a turtle.”
I stare at them. “A turtle?”
“Yes!” Roxy huffs loudly. “They promised we could have a turtle when we turned six and now we’re turning six and there’s no turtle.”
“There’s no turtle!” Monique echoes.
They’re wearing identical looks of outrage, and since their features are identical to begin with, their thunderous expressions give off some serious redrum vibes, a la The Shining.
“Like, a pet turtle?” I’m still perplexed. “Wait a second. You guys are campaigning for a pet and you chose a turtle? Man, I would’ve killed for a dog growing up.”
“We don’t care for dogs,” Roxy says, sniffing. “They’re waaay too much work.”
“And we’d have to pick up poo,” Mo adds. “That is so gross.”
“So gross.” Roxy peers up at me, her brown eyes twinkling impishly. “Did you know the French word for poo is merde?”
I smother a laugh. I’m pretty sure the correct translation is shit. Either way there’s something hilarious about hearing the word merde exit the mouth of a six-year-old.
The most delicious smells float out of the kitchen, so I wander toward it with the twins scampering at my heels. Neither Dad nor Nia is anywhere to be found, but I notice there’s something baking in the oven, and several pots and pans simmering on the stove.
The big, airy kitchen was the first room Nia renovated when she moved in, changing the tiled floor to hardwood, painting the white cabinets a bright eggshell blue. She replaced the marble island for a cedar one, claiming she didn’t like the way marble feels beneath her hands. She told Dad the counters were cold and unfeeling and made her sad. I didn’t know counters could have that much of an impact on a person, but I suppose she’s not wrong. Mom’s aesthetic did lean toward cold and unfeeling.
Beyond the kitchen is the sunroom, which also doubles as the dining room, its entire wall of windows overlooking the spacious backyard. I peer into it, but it’s empty.
“Where are the folks?” I ask, just as footsteps thud behind us.
“There’s my girl!” Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing khakis and a flannel shirt. “All my girls!” he adds, noticing the twins who are still bouncing around me. “C’mere, Cass. Give your old man a hug.”
I go over and let him envelop me with his arms. Dad’s not a tall man, but he’s stocky and has some bulk, so his hugs always make you feel safe and warm.
His eyes shine behind his wire-rimmed glasses when he releases me. “Sorry I didn’t get to see you this week. Just been busy around here.”
“No worries. You know I love spending time with Grandma.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. And I know you’re excited to spend the summer with Lydia, but we were hoping you’d come stay here too.”
“Yes!” Roxy says happily, throwing her arms around my legs again. “Then you can tell us bedtime stories every night.”
“Every single night!” Mo gives an enthusiastic nod.
“I want one now,” Roxy begs. “I wanna know what happens to Kit!”
“Me too!”
The request makes me smile. It’s become sort of a tradition that I read the girls a bedtime story whenever I’m here, but these last couple years I’ve been entertaining them with an ongoing original tale. I pulled it out of my ass one time when we couldn’t pick a book they both agreed on, and before I knew it I’d created an entire imaginary world for them, in which a little girl named McKenna finds a dragon egg in her backyard and proceeds to raise a pet dragon she names Kit, without anyone in her family catching on.