Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I sit back in the stiff wooden chair, palms flat across the table. “Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?”
“An accident.” Molly deadpans. “Your arrogance never fails to astound me.”
“Seriously Molly, I’m serious.”
“Seriously Molly, I’m serious,” she mimics me in a whiney voice, sarcasm dripping from her pretty mouth like honey. “No Matthew, I’m serious. When are you going to grow up and stop acting like an immature prick? I’m so freaking embarrassed by you. That is my roommate we’re talking about, you asshole.”
“Um, I thought I had stopped acting immature…”
“Oh my gawd.” Molly throws her hands in the air, and they land on the table with a thud. “I can’t even...”
“I can’t believe you have the nerve to sit here and judge me when your relationship got off to the same start.”
“Um, excuse me, it’s hardly the same thing - we were in high school. Weston wasn’t a grown ass man. You are.” She’s enunciating every word like I’m a simpleton.
“No, but he said a bunch of stupid shit that pissed you off too, and you forgave him eventually. Now look at the two of you – you have a great relationship. Why is it so hard to believe that I might finally want that too?”
My sister purses her lips, thinking. I know I’m wearing her down. “Molly, can I tell you something? It’s going to sound totally fucked up when I say it, but I swear to god it’s the truth.”
My sister glances towards the kitchen, where the sound of utensils and pans can be heard clanging and being set on the granite counter. “Okay,” my sister says slowly, leaning in. “I’m listening…”
Our mother, of course, chooses that exact moment to reenter the dining room, setting a steaming bowl of broccoli and cauliflower in the center of the table. Steam rises from the bowl as my mom lifts the lid to stick a spoon in it, then stirs the hot veggies.
Glancing up, she looks back and forth between the two of us. “Alright. What’s going on in here?”
“Nothing,” Molly and I reply at the same time, then glare at each other for the jinx.
Shit. Now our mom’s going to be suspicious.
I’m right, because now she’s narrowing her eyes at both of us, leaning against the table with a hand on her hip. “Hmmm,” she mumbles before walking back into the kitchen.
“Way to go, idiot,” Molly hisses at me.
“Why is that my fault? You know what, never mind. We don’t have time for this. Look. I know I fucked up – you know I fucked up. Everyone on the bloody planet knows I fucked up, okay? Can we please move on?”
My sister stares at me.
I push on, tapping my forefinger on the table impatiently. “She still owes me, you know.”
Molly arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow, nonplussed, and I can tell that under the table she’s impatiently bouncing her crossed leg. “Cece doesn’t owe you squat and we both know it.”
“Do you think if I called in the bet that our angry, make-up sex would be far better than regular sex?”
Molly curls her lip at me, barring her teeth, repulsed. I realize at this point, I’m going to have to change my approach, and roll my eyes at her. “I’m kidding. Jeez. First I have to get her to kiss me.”
She’s not amused.
“Fine. You win.” I stop fidgeting and spread my hands out on the table, beseeching. “Please Molly. Just… help me.”
Cecelia
I fidget with the hemline of my low cut top, tugging it up, turning this way and that in front of the full length mirror, eyeing Jenna and Molly – who are standing behind me – skeptically.
“Er… I don’t know Molls… this seems a bit… risqué.”
Jenna lets out a sniff of disapproval at my protest. “You only feel self-conscious because you’re not used to having your ta-ta’s there for all of mankind to enjoy. I mean - If you want to go put on something boring and put your date to sleep, by all means - be my guest.”
I take another look in the mirror in the hallway, pulling the hemline down on the Band-Aid size skirt wrapped around my waist. It barely covers my crotch. “It’s just… so not me.”
“Um yeah – and that’s a good thing,” Jenna says with a smirk, arms crossed as she leans against the wall, studying me like a science fair project. I mean – all this is easy for her to say - she’s used to dressing like a crazy person. Take right now for example: she’s wearing stone washed denim jeans straight out of the 80’s and a loose yellow sweatshirt. Her wavy blond hair, which she occasionally dip dyes, is piled loosely on her head, all wrapped conveniently in a knotted up neon yellow and hot pink floral scarf.