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)
“What do you say?” Dad presses. “Can you swing a longer visit this summer? Stay for a week? Or maybe a weekend here and there?” he trails off, a bit uncertain.
“Definitely,” I assure him. “Nia’s okay with that?”
“Of course she is. She loves having you here.”
Doubtful. But I never voice my suspicions about Nia’s level of enthusiasm toward me, especially not to Dad. Peyton’s psychiatrist mother would call it a coping mechanism, and I suppose it is. Whether I’m talking to my mom or my dad, I always put on that bright, sunny show. It’s not just because I hate conflict—I’ve been burned too many times in the past with Dad shutting down. The brunt of it happened right after the divorce, whenever I tried talking to him about my feelings. He didn’t even fight for joint custody of me, for Pete’s sake. He let Mom have it all. And I never got answers for that, only uncomfortable silences and stilted smiles as he changed the subject.
As the memories surface before I can stop them, I swallow the lump clogging my throat and then take a breath, firmly banishing the resentment to that place inside of me where all the dark thoughts go.
My father is a good guy, he truly is. I know he loves me. But sometimes it feels like he wanted to wash his hands of everything after the divorce. He wanted zero reminders of my mother, and, unfortunately, I was the biggest reminder of all. Hence, I became collateral damage.
And to Nia, I’m a reminder of her husband’s bitchy ex-wife, which is why her smile seems forced and her hug lacks warmth when she greets me a few minutes later.
“Cassandra,” she says, her dark eyes guarded. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you too. Can I help with dinner?”
“Non, non.” She still has a noticeable French accent despite all her years living in the US. “Why don’t you go sit at the table and catch up with your father and sisters? I have it handled.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She’s practically shoving me out of the kitchen. Not exactly the actions of a woman who’s desperate to spend time with her stepdaughter.
In the sunroom, Dad and I settle at the dining table while the twins wander around us, running their little fingers over the backs of all the chairs. Those two can’t sit still to save their lives.
“We told Cassie about the turtle,” Roxy informs Dad.
He’s clearly fighting a smile. “Oh, did you now? Why am I not surprised?” He glances at me. “The girls have alerted every single human they’ve encountered this past month to their desperate need for a turtle.”
“Because we need a turtle!” Roxy complains.
“And it’s not fair,” Mo chimes in.
I arch a brow at Dad. “Just out of curiosity, why are we anti-turtle?”
“We’re not,” he answers, shrugging. “But pets are a lot of work. We’re not convinced the girls are grown up enough to handle all the responsibility that comes with it.”
“Yes, we are!” they both shriek, and stomp their feet, basically proving the point he’s trying to make.
Dad and I wince. “Indoor voices,” he chides. “And we’re going to table this turtle discussion for now, all right? Your mama and I said no turtle. We can revisit it next year.”
Their faces collapse.
Knowing that tears are imminent, Dad snaps into action. He glances around the table with an exaggerated look of dismay and proceeds to do that thing I’ve seen him do a thousand times before, where he pretends there’s a critical task that needs undertaking. Usually it’s a pretty impressive trick, but tonight he’s reaching.
“Oh no!” he exclaims. “We only put out the red napkins. We also need the white ones!”
“Oh, do we?” I say innocently.
He shoots me a look. “Yes, Cassandra. You know this. We must always dine with both red and white,” he says poetically, laying it on thick. “To go with the wine.”
I choke down a laugh. “Right. How could I forget that.”
“We’ll get them!” Roxy offers, just as Dad had intended for her to do. The girls are in that phase where they must be involved in all household matters.
“I’ll help!” Mo chimes in.
“Oh wonderful. Thanks, girls.” His tone oozes gratitude, as if he didn’t just con them into doing his bidding.
The moment the sliding door closes, I stare at my father. “One: That was really smooth.”
“Thank you.”
“Two: You realize next to a goldfish, a turtle is the easiest pet you can have, right? And those things never die, so there’s no risk of you flushing it down the toilet and replacing it with a thousand other goldfish like you did with mine.”
Dad chortles. “Man, you were a clueless kid, Cass. I think we were on Rocky Fifteen before you figured it out?”
“Why would my child brain ever immediately go to my fish died, so my parents drowned his corpse and keep replacing him with impostors?” I glare in accusation. “Parents who do that are sociopaths.”