Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24777 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 124(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24777 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 124(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I don’t say anything at first, merely staring at the teen girl. After all, she’s the one who’s gorgeous. When Sharon and I got married years ago, Christy was a mess of frizzy brown hair, knobby knees, and thick glasses. But during high school, the girl changed. She grew, matured, and most of all, developed curves. The frizzy hair is now gone, transformed into lush, chestnut waves, and goddamn, but she’s put on weight in all the right places. Christy’s got large Double D breasts that are often showcased beneath tight baby T’s, and a lush bottom that’s encased in skintight jeans. But it’s her winsome smile that always makes me melt inside. She’s gorgeous, and even I, her stepfather, have noticed the transformation.
But that’s the problem. I’m the man of the house and I shouldn’t be thinking these things. Back when her mother and I were married, it was no big deal to live with a little girl. But then Sharon tragically passed away from the big C a couple years back, and I lost it for a while. It was a terrible time for everyone, and Christy and I clung to each other through the ordeal.
“Yeah, real pretty sunset,” I grunt, staring at my hands again.
Christy merely laughs gently before pulling at my forearm.
“Come on, Bart. Let’s do a tour of our new place.”
I shoot her a wry look.
“Tour? Honey, I think we’re looking at all of it. This is the entire kingdom.”
She giggles then, her brown curls bouncing.
“No silly! I mean, yes, the trailer is small but we haven’t done a spin through the whole thing.” Then, Christy stands and skips over to the bathroom before throwing the door open. She flicks on the light, which is nothing but a single bulb attached to the ceiling.
“Bathroom,” she says in a gracious tone. “Complete with a shower stall, commode, and sink.”
I smile despite myself.
“Commode? That’s a very genteel way of putting things.”
She smiles right back.
“It’s because I’m a genteel lady,” she says in an arch tone. “But come on, Bart. See, it’s not so bad! The glass of the shower stall is even frosted a bit for ‘mystery,’” she says with air quotes.
I laugh because there won’t be much mystery in this trailer, seeing how we’re basically living on top of one another. But Christy is emboldened by my chuckle, and she skips through the living room before doing a spin.
“This is our family room,” she says in a determined tone. “It’s filled with boxes right now, but I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I’ll spruce it up with some cheery curtains and colorful flowers, and it’ll be just like home.”
I nod. To be honest, the place is pretty tacky with its fake-wood walls and laminate countertops. But my stepdaughter’s always been an optimist, and I appreciate her spirit in these down times.
Then, Christy takes a few steps to the far end of the trailer and opens the door to the bedroom.
“And this is the bedroom,” she says. It isn’t much. There’s a lumpy queen-size mattress pushed against one wall, and ugly brown bedstands on either side. The one window is cracked open slightly, and the glass pane is dim with dust. But Christy looks confused. She peers through the doorway as if looking for something, and even steps into the room, doing a survey of the space.
“Pretty small, isn’t it?” I call from my place on the couch.
My stepdaughter reappears, a frown on her forehead.
“Yes, but I’m confused, Bart. I thought that there would be two twin beds for us to sleep on? Or a second bedroom in addition to this one?”
My heart clutches because that’s the problem. Although we technically can afford a bigger trailer, we had to move out of our house in a hurry, and this small one was the only one available.
“Christy, let me explain,” I begin.
My stepdaughter nods, still very serious.
“Sure, of course.”
I take a deep breath and get up before peering into the lone bedroom myself. Yep, it’s pretty fucking awful with the puke-colored drapes and deep brown shag rug that’s seen better days. But right now, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Sweetheart, you know we were evicted from our home by the bank, right?”
She nods, her pretty face confused.
“Yes, but what does that have to do with this? Surely, the trailer park has a two-bedroom available.”
I sigh, running a hand through my black hair.
“Well, that’s the thing,” I mumble, ashamed again. “I knew we were going to be evicted because I’ve been unemployed for a while. I stopped paying the mortgage on our old house at least nine or ten months back, and we were getting notices from the bank. The kind with big red letters on the front that say URGENT in all caps. But I hid them from you,” I confess. “It was my problem to deal with.”