Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Gavin: Oh. You mean Rhys went to your yoga class? What a surprise.
Hollis: I had no idea he went to your class.
Gavin: Does he go every other day?
Hollis: Right after morning skate?
Rhys: I’m like literally in this chat, wankers.
Briar: He went, and he’s an excellent student. Such a shame I didn’t see you guys there. But maybe someday you can be as flexible as Rhys is.
Rhys: Not likely. But it’s nice of you to try to prop them up, Bri.
Hollis: Let’s not forget you’re the rival, Pretzel. We’ve got to be careful who we consort with.
Gavin: Is that another dictionary word of yours?
Hollis: Like doily?
Gavin: Yes. Like doily.
Hollis: Do you even know what consort means?
Gavin: I know what consort means. It means…associate, as in a verb.
Hollis: Are you sure?
Hollis is bluffing. That’s clear. How Gavin will handle his bluff is anyone’s guess. Especially mine. But I can’t look away from their text tennis match. Three dots appear and Gavin replies with…
Gavin: Indubitably.
I crack up as I write back.
Briar: And that round goes to Gavin.
Then, I tug Donut from my clothes, zip up the suitcase, and pop Frances into her newly purchased carrier. She yowls at me.
“But you look so pretty in your new bag,” I say, and before I close it, I toss her a stuffed catnip alligator and that hits the spot for her. In spite of Aubrey and Ledger’s offer to look after her, my dad called dibs when I mentioned I needed a place for her, though I haven’t told him why yet. He’ll be pissed on my behalf. Since Aubrey’s at work, I let myself out and head to my car, Donut by my side. I set the pets safely in the car. After I drop the suitcase into the trunk where the other one’s already stowed, I check the chat again.
Hollis: Damn. It fucking does. I need to step up my game. Speaking of stepping up our game…I take it the cat is staying with your dad?
Briar: She is. He’s a cat man, even though he’s a Sea Dogs fan.
Hollis: I’ll pretend you didn’t say that last part. But if Mrs. Furry Butt needs any special protection while you’re gone, you know where to find us.
Briar: I do.
I don’t know exactly how I wound up with a crew of three hockey protectors but somehow I have one.
Serendipity, I suppose.
I close the thread, turning on my girl power playlist. I need an epic breakup tune, something to signify I don’t need anyone. I find the Amelia Stone tune—Better Off—blast it, and hit the road, leaving the hockey guys behind me, and the next phase in my life ahead.
9
BIG RED FLAG
Briar
I pull into my dad’s garage in Petaluma about an hour later. The sign reads Henry’s Garage, but everyone calls it Big Daddy’s Garage. Everyone but me.
Dust kicks up from the ground and the smell of motor oil tickles my nostrils. My dad’s working on a Dodge Charger, black with a bolt of lightning painted on the side. When he sees my car—one a customer gave him years ago that wasn’t worth fixing, but Dad fixed it anyway—he sets down his tools and heads my way.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, hopping out of the car, grabbing a little gift I picked up at a roadside candy and fruit shop, and bracing myself for the inevitable romance is the worst sigh that’s coming my way in about thirty seconds.
I’m no good at keeping my life from him. Ever since I cried buckets when my prom date who I’d thought would love me forever dumped me, I’ve been a see-through daughter with him. But then again, it’s not like I hid my emotions from him when Mom left either when I was ten, returning to her hometown of Sydney with barely a word and the even rarer visit. I was devastated then. He was too. But he shoved aside his own hurt to handle my brother and me. This is why I share my life with him. Because he shared his life with us.
Dad scrubs a hand across his bushy beard, his brow crinkled, a dirty rag in his hand but a smile teasing at his lips. Donut hops up and down in her car seat, attempting what she believes is a fail-safe method for opening any door—jumping. The window is cracked open, a boisterous arf coming through the sliver as she pogos.
“Hey, kiddo. What are you doing in these parts?” Dad asks, his standard greeting, even though he’s been expecting Frances and me.
But I also don’t want to spend too much time on why my life is a mess. Don’t want to worry him.
I waggle the bag, hoping the distraction ploy helps. “First of all, I stopped and got your favorite gummi bears.”
He studies the bag skeptically but takes it. “I like these.”