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)
My phone buzzes in my other hand.
Tate: He already has TWO framed copies. One for the dealership, one for his home office. He thinks he’s a celebrity now. He just called me asking if he should schedule a press conference.
Me: Let the man have his moment in the sun, Gate!
Laughing, I leave my phone on the counter and head for the fridge. At the table, Mom is scanning the article, still looking displeased. Well, of course. Someone other than her is getting attention. The nerve!
“Your grandmother tried to convince me the other day that you were dating that boy, but I didn’t believe her.” Raising one eyebrow, Mom pushes the newspaper away and picks up her coffee cup. “It appears I was wrong.”
“Tate and I aren’t dating.” I stick my head in the fridge hoping the chill might cool down my suddenly warm cheeks.
“No? Because also according to your grandmother, the landscaper says it looks like someone’s been trampling the rose garden beneath the lattice at the side of the house. The one that leads right to your window.”
Damn it. I poke my head out, my hand emerging with a container of yogurt. “It’s not a big deal,” I say, going to grab a bowl. “We’re just hanging out.”
Mom shakes her head in amusement. “It’s not like I don’t know exactly what that means, sweetie.”
I shrug. “It’s just a casual thing. We’re parting ways at the end of the summer, so it’s not going to lead to anything.”
“I see. Well, I suppose so long as you’re having fun.”
“We are.”
“And so long as you’re taking precautions.” Mom offers a pointed look.
My cheeks are scorching again. “We are.”
“Then I guess I don’t have anything to worry about,” she finishes.
I’m confused as to why she was worried in the first place. Mom’s never paid much attention to my love life, other than to criticize me for not having one.
She changes the subject, watching me as she sips her coffee. “How is your father?”
I brace myself. Waiting for the … and his nurse?
But it doesn’t come.
“He’s good. We had a nice time. The girls loved their gift.”
“Speaking of gifts.” Mom finishes her coffee and walks to the counter, and it’s then that I notice the neatly wrapped gift near the knife block. A crisp lavender envelope sits atop it. “I decided I’d wait until today to give you this, since you were so busy yesterday.”
Her tone lacks bite, but that had to be sarcasm, right? Some kind of resentful subtext, like, You were so busy yesterday … because your father and his nurse kept you away from me all day long.
Only, I see none of that on her face. Not an ounce of hostility.
“Yesterday was super busy,” I agree.
I open the envelope first and pull out a card with a delicate purple flower pressed onto the front. Inside, the card is blank save for my mother’s uber-concise handwritten message: Happy birthday, Cassie. Love, Mom. And there’s a check for five thousand dollars.
“Some spending money for your senior year,” she explains.
“Thanks.” Gift card. Check. Both my parents enjoy taking the easy way out, apparently.
“Now here’s your real present,” she says, sliding the gift box toward me. Her tone is light, joking even, but it’s belied by the anxiety in her eyes.
Okay. This is weird. Why does she look so anxious for me to open this?
I study the narrow box, which is around the size of a sheet of paper and not too thick. Clothing, I realize, when I lift the lid and glimpse fabric beneath the white tissue paper. I part the paper.
It’s a crop top.
I steel myself. This must be some kind of attack, right?
“I had Joy pick it out,” Mom says. A nervous look darts across her face.
Holy shit, this is not a joke. I repeat, this is not a joke.
It’s a sincere gesture.
“Oh,” I say in surprise.
I run my fingers over the ribbed material. I saw this top in one of the boutiques on the strip when Joy and I were shopping a few weeks ago. I’d picked it up, admiring it, asking Joy if emerald green was my color. I didn’t end up buying it, only because I didn’t feel like dropping two hundred dollars on a strip of fabric.
“I know I was out of line,” Mom starts.
The shocks just keep coming.
“Last week when we spoke on the patio,” she clarifies. “You’d just returned from dinner and I remarked on your outfit. I may have been a tad rude about it.”
May have? A tad?
“Just a tad,” I say lightly.
“I’m sorry. I was in a very bad mood that night, and I’m afraid I took it out on you.” She laughs, and it sounds genuinely sheepish. “I don’t think you’re a bimbo. Obviously I don’t think that. Like I said, I was in a bad mood. I apologize.”