Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“What’s felching?” my beautiful child innocently asks.
And it’s like the smile is smacked right off my face. Or I’ve been gut punched. Point is, I am not a happy mom.
I look around cautiously, hoping and praying nobody heard but I am shit out of luck. Everybody is staring at me. Judging me. I’m silently dying inside, curling into a fetal position and dying. One guy in particular eyeballs me strangely. Sicko.
“Belching, you mean. Belching,” I correct, trying to sound casual and not as mortified as I’m feeling.
“No, I mean fel––” I put my hand over his mouth.
“Hey, how about that ice cream? You want a sundae? Doesn’t a sundae sound great?”
He nods, easily distracted. I hustle him out of the deli area before somebody calls child services on me.
Sam and I ended up staying in town and having an early dinner at Bostwick’s where the seafood is finger licking good. I needed time to calm down. Had I gone straight home, it would’ve immediately turned into a crime scene. As it stands, it’ll be a miracle if I don’t stab him in his sleep tonight. From this day forth, he needs to namastay the fuck away from me, or it’s going to get really ugly.
Unfortunately, neither the amazing dinner nor the pit stop at Scoop Du Jour for gelato did much to cool my jets. Once we’re back at the house, I send Sam to his room to get ready for bed, then go in search of the defiler of innocent ears.
There’s no question in my mind he heard it from the porn Hendricks was watching. He can do his worst with me, but this he cannot do. This officially crosses the line. It crosses all the freaking lines.
I check his bedroom, only to discover it dark and empty. I head over to the garage. Could this finally be the day he went out? Nope. There his Suburban sits. I have half a mind to shiv his tires but sadly that would only ensure his residential status and that would be counterproductive to my goal.
On a hunch, I finally check the pool even though the sun is about to set and the evening air has turned chilly. And there I find him, snoring on a lounge chair, heart-shaped sunglasses still on, oblivious to the temptation he presents. At least, he’s not naked. There’s something to be grateful for.
Without further ado, I go grab the garden hose I use to water the cherished purple hydrangeas, point, and shoot. The cold water hits him right in the face and he springs up sputtering and screaming.
“What the––!!!”
He rubs his face and shakes his drenched head like the dog he is. His beloved sunglasses fly off into the sea grass, hopefully never to be seen again. After which he blinks in confusion. Again and again he blinks, staring ahead. Then he zeros in on me and the short lived confusion quickly morphs into out and out fury.
“Lady––”
“Say that one more time and I will blast you again.”
His fury takes a momentary hiatus to make way for befuddlement. “Say what?”
Fire blazes up my neck. I have never been one to anger quickly. When it does happen, however, it’s a runaway horse, practically impossible to put back in the barn.
“Listen up, shit bird, you have been ridin’ my last nerve like it’s a beast of burden and I have had enough! You hear me! Enough!”
His face does a quirky thing. Then, ever so slowly, his lips hike up on one side.
Oh, hell no. I hit him with the water again––right in his shit bird face. Smile gone. Nailed it. I mentally pump a fist.
Water drips, drips, drips off his nose as he glowers at me. “What’s your deal, lady?”
“My deal? My deal. Mmm, let’s see. My deal is that I’m pissed. My deal is that I had to explain to my ten-year-old son that felching, FELCHING is an adult word that he should never again repeat––after he shouted it in the supermarket! I just learned what that word means last year and I’m thirty-three! I will never be able to show my face in the deli section again. That’s my deal.”
His face turns into a stop sign, instantly glowing a very obvious bright red despite the waning light and the deep tan. For the first time since we’ve met, he looks remorseful, his eyes shifting away from mine for a change of pace.
“Go ahead and feel sorry for yourself. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Go ahead and watch porn to your heart’s content. Booze it up all day long. Eat trash and neglect your physical therapy. No judgment––you’re a big boy. In theory. What you cannot do, however, is do it around my son. He’s been subjected to enough of that from me––well, I mean, except for the porn. The point is he will not be made to endure it from you. I’m calling my brother.”