Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Pulling into our parents’ driveway, Morgan asks, “Seriously, Maggie?”
Once again, I ignore her, the same way I ignored her when she asked me where we were going when we got on the road. Then again, when I took the exit for Pullman, the community my parents live in, I honestly would never have planned on coming here, but the longer I drove, the more I thought about it, and the more I realized it’s my mom and dad’s turn to step the hell up.
I have been doing more than my fair share of taking care of people. It’s time someone had my back. And that thought hurt, because Sven should have been the one to do just that. He should have put his personal feelings aside and had my back. Even pissed, he should be here for me, but he wasn’t, proving to me that once again I picked the wrong man, but unlike all the others, he was able to hurt me.
Putting my car in park when I reach the end of the dirt road that stops near the front porch of my parents’ home, I mutter, “You want help, Morgan, then you do things my way this time.” I open the door, getting out without another word.
“MoonPie?” My mom calls in surprise, walking out onto the porch followed by my dad. They haven’t changed much since the last time I saw them. My mom is beautiful for a woman her age, with long white-grey hair, big blue eyes, and a small frame. You can tell she takes care of herself, eats right, drinks water, and exercises—or in her case, does yoga regularly. My dad’s age is starting to show, but he’s still handsome. His hair is still thick, and is now greying around the edges, but blends in with the blond. His skin is dark from the Arizona sun, and his body is firm from working outside daily in his garden or on the house.
“Morgan,” my dad whispers a second later with worry etched in his tone, and I look across the hood to see that Morgan has gotten out of the car and is staring up at the front porch at both of them.
“Oh my,” my mom gasps, stepping down the stairs, only to pause on the last step and cover her mouth with her hand.
“Can we go inside?” I ask, slamming my door, probably a little harder than I need to, but I’m angry. I’m angry they didn’t care when I told them that Morgan was missing. I’m angry they didn’t send out the troops like most parents would and search for their troubled daughter. But I’m pissed they left all of this to fall on my shoulders while they pretended like everything was hunky-dory.
“Come on, we just sat down for dinner,” my dad mutters, his eyes going hard in a way that’s surprising. My parents are passive; they’ve always have been passive, never letting much of anything bother them, so seeing the look of anger and disappointment my dad is directing toward Morgan is more than a little startling. “Do you have any bags?” he asks, turning his eyes to me.
“No,” I tell him, gaining a nod before he takes my mom’s elbow and leads her inside. Following behind them, I take Morgan’s hand and head in, letting her know silently that she’s not alone.
My parents’ house looks the same as it did when I was a kid. Three long steps lead to a large covered porch that has been white-washed every winter since I can remember. On one side of the porch is a hammock big enough to hold two people, a two-seated white wicker couch with brightly colored pillows, a wicker coffee table with a large metal plate full of different sized candles, and a bright red outdoor rug, where my mom always does her yoga.
Walking through the front door is more of the same vibe. The living room is small, but is done in bright floral colors with live plants on almost every flat surface. The kitchen is old but well kept, the wood topping the counters is the type you would find on a cutting board. Instead of cabinets, there are open white shelves holding dishes, and more plants, but these are herbs and things my mom cooks with. Stopping with my dad, I notice the round four-seated table is set for two, with a big covered pot in the middle. One of my mom’s big things has always been family dinners around the table, and even with my sister and me long gone, she has still stuck to that tradition.
“Get two more plates, Maisy,” my dad orders my mom, who hasn’t looked at my sister or me again. Nodding, she goes to one of the shelves in the kitchen and grabs two more plates, along with silverware.