Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 118136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“You’re too old to cuddle with your mama.”
“Don’t say that!” Rosie shrieked.
“Seems like she’s not really in agreement with you.” I yawned.
Dad went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. I squeezed Mom into my chest and kissed the crown of her head.
“He’s probably crying while listening to Halsey on repeat like a little bitch.” I yawned again.
“Language, boy.”
“C’mon, we’re not one of those fake families.”
“What kind of family are we?” she asked.
“A real, kick-ass one.”
Mom laughed so hard, I thought she was going to puke out a lung. When the laughter died and she looked up at me, she had that let’s-get-real expression I perpetually hated.
“Have you spoken to Luna lately?”
“I have.”
And had I fucking ever. She actually spoke. Which I didn’t share with anyone, naturally. It was bad enough I’d ratted her out for sleeping with FUCKING JOSH (forever in capital letters, thank you very much) in front of everyone at a family dinner. There was no need to completely shit all over her trust.
Trent Rexroth had spent the day after Thanksgiving running after me across a park with that baseball bat. I had better stamina, but I’d let him catch me when I got to our deserted treehouse, because let’s admit it, I deserved a good beating.
When he’d finally pushed me against the old trunk, he just gave me a scary-ass look and promised, “If you disrespect my daughter again, in public or in private, I will spear your fucking head to my fence and feed the rest of you to the coyotes.”
Plus, I kind of liked that Luna and I had our own secret, even though I was working through purging her out of my system. I’d lied. I didn’t want to get even. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I was done letting her hurt me, and that was something.
“And…?” Mom wiggled her eyebrows.
She was #TeamLunight. She’d even made herself a shirt with the hashtag for Christmas four years ago, when the concept had seemed real. My parents had loved each other in secret for over a decade. They still believed in star-crossed lovers and fairytales coming true. Only they’d had a real obstacle stopping them from being together. And that obstacle wasn’t some random dude’s dick.
“She and Josh seem to be very happy, from what I could tell.”
Her face fell.
“Hey.” I nudged her. “It’s not like I give a crap.”
“Of course you don’t.” She arched an eyebrow skeptically.
“Girls are lizards. They don’t have souls.”
“This is slander. Who says lizards don’t have souls?” She pretended to gasp. “And how do you mean?”
“Cold blood. That’s why you always shower with extra-hot water. Fact. Look it up on the internet.” I pinched her nose just as Dad came out of the bathroom, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a Polo shirt.
“You’re still here,” he said, glancing at the door. “Can I bribe you with something to get some downtime with my wife? Another car? A nice vacation? Perhaps a kick in the butt?”
“Oh, you.” Mom opened her arms. Dad skulked into her embrace. A moth to a flame. Two unique pieces of an elaborate puzzle. The Coles were professional huggers. I swear Ma had a PhD in that shit.
“Lev! Levy-boy,” Dad roared. “Come here right now. Family cuddle.”
“Can’t,” Lev barked from his room.
Dad rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone, turning off Lev’s cell through an app.
“Hey!” Lev shouted. “I was talking to Bailey.”
“Shocker,” Dad and I drawled in unison.
Mom burst out laughing again.
“I want every Cole man in this bed right now!” She patted the mattress.
Lev came running down the hallway, cannonballing onto the giant bed. We were all in now, laughing and talking. Mom ordered pizza, and we played twenty questions with the loser picking up the pizza from the door.
I didn’t think about Luna. Or FUCKING JOSH. Or that first second every morning when I woke up and wanted to throw up because Luna had taken a dump all over what we’d had.
This was good.
This was for the best.
All I needed was my family—not another deserter who’d give me up.
After another grueling morning workout, I chugged down an entire bottle of BCAA water and slam-dunked it into the trash can on the way to my locker.
“Coming through. Beep, beep. Make way for the royal QB1, his highness Knight Cole.”
The rest of my team pushed people down the hallway, half-joking, but half dead-ass serious.
Some freshman turd mouthed something about my saliva and rummaged in the trash to retrieve my empty bottle. I couldn’t give two fucks if he tried to replicate my DNA and make a ninja turtle out of it. It was becoming harder and harder to care about stupid things when your mother was one day closer to dying.
The football team dispersed, each player to his own locker. I reached mine, glancing behind my back. After making sure the coast was clear, I produced the letter I’d received this summer and opened it. It was wrinkled from being read five thousand times, but I read it again. It wasn’t the first letter I’d received about this shitty matter, but it was the one I loved being tortured with the most, because it offered action.