Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Where are you staying?” he asks me.
“The hotel in town,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t be silly.” Her dad smiles. “You can stay here. We have the room.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“If you insist,” her dad says, “but you don’t need a cab. Skye can drive you.”
I glance at her.
“Uh…yeah, sure. I’ll drive you.”
If Steve knew what my body was doing at the mention of Skye driving me to a hotel, he’d take back his words.
“Thank you, Skye,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Keys are on the hook,” her dad says.
“I’ll see if I can take Mom’s car,” she says. “I don’t like driving the truck.”
“Suit yourself. My car’s in the shop for a tune-up.” Steve holds out his hand. “Great to meet you, Braden. I hope we’ll see you again.”
“I hope so, too.” Steve has a strong grip. I turn to Skye. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She heads to the kitchen and returns with keys, as I look around the modest home where she grew up, at the people who raised her. All indicators point to Skye having a nice childhood. But I know better than anyone that a lovely house like this one doesn’t always tell the whole truth.
She sucks in a breath and jingles the keys. “Ready?”
“I am. Thank you again for dinner,” I say to her dad, “and please tell your wife thank you as well.”
“I absolutely will. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
We walk out, and I follow Skye to a light blue hatchback.
Damn. Takes me back.
It’s been over a decade since I’ve ridden in a hatchback.
“No luggage?” she says.
“I dropped everything off at the hotel and took a cab here.”
“Not a limo?”
I don’t respond. She’s being a brat, and she knows it.
She unlocks the car and gets into the driver’s side. I slide in beside her, my long legs scrunched up. I fiddle with the knobs on the side of my chair until it slides back into a more comfortable position.
“Since we only have one hotel in the tiny downtown area of Liberty, I assume you’re staying there.”
“You assume correctly.”
She starts the engine and pulls out of the long driveway. It’s a twenty-minute drive into town. “Why didn’t you rent a car?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to get here. I’ll rent one tomorrow.” I’m not sure why I said that. I won’t be renting a car tomorrow. I’ll be flying to New York.
She nods.
Silence for a few minutes, until I turn to look at her. My whole reason for coming here was to learn more about her, about what makes her tick. Sure, she’s right that I’m looking to learn about myself as well, but I know precious little about her upbringing.
“Tell me something about your childhood,” I say.
“Is this a two-way street?” she asks.
“Sure. You tell me something, and I’ll tell you something. Except I get to choose what I tell you.”
“Is it a two-way street?” she asks again.
“Sure. You choose what to tell me. I know about the cornfield. You know about my trips to the food pantry. That’s all we know about each other’s childhoods.”
“Fair enough.” She clears her throat. “My mom used to make my clothes when I was little. I never wore anything store-bought until I was in high school.”
Not overly surprising, though I didn’t take Maggie for a seamstress. My mother wasn’t. She didn’t even own a sewing machine. “I see.”
“Now, you go.”
“I did get to wear store-bought clothes,” I say, “but they were never new. We got them from thrift stores, and when I grew out of them, Ben wore them. He got the shorter end of the stick. While they were never brand-new, at least they were new to me.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just keeps her eyes on the road.
“Your turn,” I say.
“I… I did well in school.”
Hardly surprising. Skye is a very intelligent person. “I assume that. Dig deeper, Skye.”
“That’s deep. I was one of the brainy kids. The brainy kid in handmade clothes.”
“Skye—”
“Your turn.”
“Fine.” I draw in a breath. I won’t get angry. She’s doing the best she can. “My father drank. A lot.”
She raises her eyebrows. “He did? He seems fine now.”
“He’s a recovering alcoholic. Did you notice he didn’t drink that night at dinner?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I suppose that’s not unusual. Most people don’t go around watching what others drink. When you grow up with an alcoholic, you look at things differently. “Your turn,” I say.
“Wait, wait, wait… You can’t just throw that one out there and then say it’s my turn. You need to elaborate.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. My parents aren’t alcoholics. They’ve been pretty happily married since…”
“Since when?”
She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she stares out the windshield, nibbling at her lower lip. Have I struck a nerve?
“When I was little,” she finally says, “about seven or eight, my father went away for a while right before harvest. My mother spent a lot of time crying, and I spent a lot of time trying to get her attention. He came back around Christmastime. Mom stopped crying then, but things were weird for a while.”