Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Sad that her dad’s away? Dono. Use food as her control method?” Joey purses her lips to one side. “Also, dono. What I do know is that we take these things one day at a time and evolve tactics as tactics need to evolve.” Her legs are pulled to her chest for her to drape an arm over. “Kids are just people in a smaller form. We have to be open to working on the relationship with them whenever necessary, which sucks to hear but.” She casually shrugs. “Part of the parenting process.”
Despite the small grumble in my stomach, any desire to eat vanishes.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Quit my job?
Be a stay-at-home dad?
Fuck, was I like this when my father was constantly on the road?
How the hell did my mom not resent him more?
“Dedu had us put our photobook on the table during dinner with a photo of just you open, and it helped.”
“Wait. Father suggested that?”
Her nodding is enthusiastic and instant. “Yeah, he’s all in whenever it comes to keeping her connected or reminded of you.”
Making up for lost time I assume.
“With your picture open on the table in front of the seat beside me, Bella actually ate dinner unlike breakfast – because I refused to give her fruit snacks instead of actual fruit – and lunch – which according to her teacher she threw on the ground piece by piece instead of eating.”
I run both hands through my hair in silent frustration before asking, “Is she gonna get kicked out of school for that shit?”
“For…behaving…like an emotionally unstable three-year-old?” Joeski teasingly asks. “No.”
Guess I should count that gino.
“And like your daughter,” the woman who lights up my life sassily begins, “you need to eat too.” She points a finger in the direction of my untouched meal. “More than just that sad sando.”
“It was a sad sando,” I mumble under my breath at the same time I pick up my utensils.
“Not as sad as that shit Nowak tried to pull on you tonight. Did he really think you weren’t gonna retaliate for that butt-ending?!”
Cutting into the meat is momentarily paused. “How’d you know that penalty was a butt-ending and not a high stick like the ref wrongfully called it?”
“Your dad.”
Against my own volition, I smirk. “On uchit tebya?”
“And because of your mom I know you said something about teaching.” She childishly sticks her tongue out prompting me to warmly laugh. “Now, what do you wanna talk about first? What the fuck Nowak’s problem was or your broken nose?”
“Not broken.”
“Then why’d you wear a cage?!”
“Protocol.” After the first piece of steak slips into my mouth, I add, “Face injuries require that shit.”
“What exactly did Med say?”
Explaining to Joeski what unfolded on the ice that she couldn’t see or hear, what it means for my body as well as my recovery, and the fundamental difference between being hurt versus injured occurs during the entirety of my dinner eating sesh while discussing books accompanies me through my winddown routine of brushing my teeth, cleaning my face – I swear steak tends to give me a touchskie of the meat sweats – and getting comfortable under the covers. Throughout the span of conversation, I swear we’re in the same room.
Side by side rather than thousands of miles apart.
Fuck, if I didn’t know for a fact that she was in my house, in my bed, lying on my pillows, I’d swear she was right on the other side of the bathroom door about to crawl in beside me at any minute.
The Great One knows I can’t wait for that to finally be a reality versus a fantasy.
Joey rolls over onto her side and tucks one hand under her cheek. “Is it just modern romance novels or the classics too?”
Killing the light beside me is attached to my retort, “Define classics.”
“Pride and Prejudice?”
“Not a huge Jane Austen dude. Plus, I like the reimagined version Pride, Prejudice, and Zombies a bit more.”
“Wuthering Heights?”
“That’s more like a dark romance for its time due to Heathcliff and Cathy’s relationship, but I don’t know that I’d – personally – categorize it as a romance novel. But yeah. It was fucked up. I liked it.”
“Echoes of the Future?”
“Ot-oh,” I playfully taunt, “Joeski comin’ in with the top cheddar shots.” Laughter leaves us both prior to me replying, “Yeah. As far as traditional classics go, I do like a wide range of before my time shit by authors like Sofia Smirnov – who wrote romance – and Leo Tolstoy – who didn’t although Anna Karenina is truly some bar downskie level of shit according to the man himself – both of which have Russian roots.”
Intrigue spreads through her brown gaze inspiring me to pull the device in a little closer when she asks, “What about more modern yet less like right now authors?”