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)
“I’m not asking or expecting you to be friends with him right away.” I pause, searching for the right words to ease some of his concerns. “I know this is hard for you––”
“He doesn’t care about me.”
That’s more than he’s ever said about Ronan and it’s not promising. That he could really believe that tears my heart apart.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, hugging him tighter. I don’t want him clamming up now that he’s finally letting me in.
“He never asks about me. He always talks about himself. About his stupid music. I don’t even like it.”
Now I’m forced to defend Ronan even though I’m not sure he deserves it. “Your dad hasn’t ever been a dad before. He’s learning on the job…Did you know that he never even had a dad? He doesn’t know who his dad is. Did he tell you that?”
Sam shakes his head. To Ronan’s credit, he’s been making regular phone calls on the weekends, trying to engage Sam in conversion. Which, frankly, is harder than getting milk from a bull.
“Have you considered that maybe he’s nervous and doesn’t know how to act around you?”
Sam looks up at me and for the first time obstinacy makes way for doubt…and maybe even makes a little room for Ronan, too. “You’re kind of scary.” I tap the tip of his nose with my index finger and he smiles. “Maybe tomorrow you can try telling him about what you like and see what happens.”
After a beat, Sam nods. All I can do is pray that Ronan doesn’t screw it up again.
Chapter Eight
I’m the type of person that cleans when I’m mulling over a heavy topic. And Ronan showing up and announcing that he’s going to be shacking up two blocks over for the summer is definitely a heavy topic.
I’ve had to get creative in the ways I cope with stress and for me there’s nothing more liberating than putting on my favorite ’90s rap and cleaning the shit out of my house. For one thing it’s definitely more productive than late night cocktails.
Hendricks stepped into the kitchen this morning dressed like a normal human being, wearing a pale gray suit that fit him beautifully. It was a serious exercise in self-discipline to not stare––or drool for that matter. This gift was courtesy of a meeting with team management he needed to attend that left me in the house blessedly alone. Basically, a twofer.
Sam left for his lunch date with Ronan at eleven thirty, albeit reluctantly. Both father and son looked like two wooden soldiers marching out the door to deal with some unpleasant business. As soon as the front door closed two words rang loudly in my head: Home Alone.
Blasting my music, I got to work. By the time I’m done with most of the house, it’s early afternoon. And while the bathrooms twinkle and the kitchen sparkles, I’m a hot mess. Hair piled on top of my head, half of it dangling to the side and sticking to my sweaty neck, my face glistening. All that’s left for me to do is to pass the Swifter over the wood floors and I’m done.
The last song on my playlist comes on. Mamma Say Knock You Out by LL Cool J.
I love this song. I love it so much it is physically impossible for me not to move and sing along with it. Physically impossible. I’ve been listening to this song for years and I still can’t manage it.
My black tank top is soaked in sweat so I strip it off, wipe my chest, and take it to the laundry room where it gets dropped into the washing machine. No bra today ’cause I’m: Home Alone.
As soon as the beat drops, my head is bobbing along with the music. A second later I’m singing loudly. Roxy tucks tail and goes to hide out in my bedroom.
“Don’t call it a comeback
I’ve been here for years
I’m rocking my peers
Puttin’ suckers in fear
Makin’ the tears rain down like a monsoon…”
I’m so pumped I’m karate kicking the dickens out of thin air. The chorus comes on and I go full-out, singing even louder. “I’m gonna knock you out. Momma say knock you out…”
My eyes are closed and my body’s moving. I’m working that Swifter pole like I’m getting dollar bills stuffed into my underwear to do it. I’m so high from the uplifting power of the music and I can feel my soul singing along, higher than I’ve ever been on controlled substances.
“I gotta thank God
’Cause he gave me the strength to rock hard
I'm gonna knock you out
Mama said knock you ooaaaahhh! What the fuck!!”
Hendricks is standing in the doorway with hands tucked into his pockets, amusement flickering in his eyes, a sneaky smile in place.
Screaming bloody murder, I sprint out of the living room while awkwardly holding my boobs. The first door I see gets yanked open and I dive inside what ends up being a closet.