Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
My box of records has been busted into, and they sit open, off to the side. We no longer have a coffee table after yesterday’s shenanigans, so the small living room is free other than the fabric sectional, which is in an L shape, and the empty TV stand, since I haven’t bought a new one yet. I had bigger fish to fry yesterday.
As in, Toren fish.
Right now, the Toren fish stops lip-syncing and drops down on one knee for one heck of an air guitar solo. It might be the most attractive, sexiest air guitar solo in history, thanks to the jeans that tighten on Toren’s muscled thighs and the way his t-shirt strains against his tight abs and biceps. His hair is also damp, and I’ve forgotten how curly it gets when it’s wet. Since his hair is not cut short, a dark bunch of it falls over his forehead, obstructing his vision, which is turned toward his hands. I tear my eyes away from all the rippling muscle and mountainous beauty before my heart can start a drum solo against my ribs.
Milo is right in there, jamming away while bopping and nodding his head. He’s multitalented and is switching between drums, bass or guitar, and piano.
They keep going until Milo looks up and sees me. “Mom!” He immediately forgets all about his imaginary instruments and runs toward me so fast that the record skips.
Toren starts. He totters in his surprise and falls backward, straight onto his rump, which is, if memory serves me right, and I have an excellent memory, a very nice rump. The kind of rump that is as rippling and mountainous as the rest of him.
Milo wraps his arms around my legs and stares up at me. He’s sweaty too. His red t-shirt is stuck to him, and his baggy jeans are grass-stained at the knees—evidence of an earlier visit to the park.
“Mom! We went to the library, then the park!” I knew I was right about that. It’s charming to see how excited Milo is about the library. He loves reading above anything else. Just like his dad. “Can Toren The Terrific stay for dinner?”
Toren flushes from the floor. He springs up, getting to his feet deftly, then walks over and turns off the record player. “Hey, bud, I’m sure your mom has other plans. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back again tomorrow morning.”
“Toren The Terrific, huh? Sounds like a wizard. Were you two playing with magic while I was gone?”
Milo laughs. “No, mom. He just told me to call him that.”
“I…whoa now,” Toren protests. He’s so embarrassed that his eyes are practically crossed. “That was a joke. And I said Toren was fine.”
“Okay, yeah, he did say Toren was fine, but I like Toren The Terrific better.”
Ugh. Looking at Toren all mortified—his cheeks pink and his eyes so shiny with adoration for Milo that they look silver, not gray—I can feel myself getting all crossed up, twisted, and gnarly on the inside.
“I…I don’t know, bud…”
“But mom! You were just going to make spaghetti and meatballs. You told me that this morning. It’s easy to make lots of that. You’re always complaining about how you can never make the right amount of pasta.”
“I’m sure Toren has other plans.” I sweep my eyes to him, practically begging him to get on board with that and make up some excuse, but of course, he thwarts me.
“I don’t have any plans.”
“Yay!” Milo yells like it’s already decided.
I have to bite my tongue and tamp down my scathing looks because I don’t want Milo to see it. He wouldn’t understand. And I’m always telling him how we should be polite and kind. He would see me turfing Toren out as neither polite nor kind, and then where would I be? I don’t want to get called out by my four-year-old son for being a hypocritical parent.
“If you want to go clean up your room, I can help your mom make dinner,” Toren offers.
Milo hates cleaning his room. He’d rather stick his hand in a jar filled with creepy spiders, eat fried liver, or voluntarily go for a haircut since he absolutely hates those things. But because Toren suggested it, not me, and Toren is apparently so much cooler than I am—or at least he’s newer, and the novelty hasn’t worn off yet—he immediately runs down the hall and doesn’t accuse Toren of child abuse like he sometimes accuses me when I get him to pick up the tornado of a mess he often leaves behind.
“Milo makes me feel like a human,” Toren says, and I make a break for the kitchen.
I can’t stand there in the living room just drinking him in like he’s an ice-cold bottle of beer after a really hot day mowing the grass under the scorching sun. My parents used to make me do that while growing up. I seriously do not miss having a lawn at all. Milo will never know how good he has it. I also can’t stand there drinking in Toren’s scent, which is wafting in nice, fresh, mountainous wafts from across the room. He also smells just a little like man sweat since a day with Milo is enough to test even the most ardent of deodorants, but even that smells kind of good.