Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
No one knew Dad was bisexual.
The whole thing is so fucked up.
Carrie bails the moment I turn off the car, disappearing into our massive home. I slowly walk inside, my nerves alive and wired as I wonder what sort of mood Mom will be in. The house is darkened aside from the entryway light where she left her purse. Never a good sign. I sniff the air to see if she has dinner going. Nothing. Fuck.
I drop my bag off by the stairs and walk back to my parents’ bedroom that now only belongs to Mom. She’s curled up in bed, asleep. The television is on mute, and the remote is in her hand. Gently, I pull it out of her grip and set it on the end table.
She’s so small.
At one time, she stood tall. Beautiful and vibrant. Now, she’s nothing more than a shell. She decorates cakes at a fucking grocery store and then comes home to sleep the rest of the evening away. This is her life now. All happiness has drained away.
My anger at my father is practically nuclear level as I drag the blanket over Mom’s sleeping form. I’m thrumming with the urge to wreck something when my stomach grumbles. I let out a sigh and head upstairs to see what Carrie wants to eat.
I hear her making plans with someone—probably Paige—to meet up at the pizza place Nae works at, so I bypass her room to go to mine. I’m not in the right frame of mind to see Nae again so soon after our argument, so I certainly don’t invite myself to go with them. Instead, I survey my messy-ass room, smirking just knowing Dad would gripe about it if he saw the state it was in.
He always rode my ass about my mess despite being just like me. His office was always a nightmare, and Mom closed the door whenever company would come over. Dad was such a fucking hypocrite.
Since he left, I’ve met no resistance with Mom about it. In a way, I sort of miss the way Dad’s face would screw up at the sight of my unsightly room.
It’s then I have an idea.
With an evil grin on my face, I text my father for the first time since the fallout.
Me: Can I come over for dinner tonight? I have something to tell you.
He’ll hate that I’ve quit football, and I’ll take great pride at seeing the disappointment on his face.
Dad: You’re always welcome, Son. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Carrie coming too?
Me: It’ll just be me. She has a thing with Paige.
Dad: See you soon. Love you, bud.
I have the urge to send him the middle finger emoji but refrain. Barely. I send him a stupid smiley emoji instead, even though it’s the opposite of what I’m feeling. Maybe I’ll catch him off guard, kind of like he did me when he got on one knee and gave a man a ring before the ink was even dry on his divorce decree.
Yeah, I’m really, really going to enjoy this.
Alister
After a quick shower, I throw on a pair of gray sweats and pad out of the bathroom, my bleached hair dripping with water. No matter how cold I turned the shower’s temperature, I couldn’t seem to cool the fire inside me.
That asshole is fucking with me.
First, he enrolled in all my classes aside from orchestra and then had the balls to show me up at track practice. I want to knock his head off his shoulders, though I’d have to bring him to his knees to successfully make that happen since he’s a damn giant. Rather than ponder ways to beat the fuck out of Canyon Voss, enemy number one, I lose myself in my homework. It’s all easy, so I blow through it at record speed. I’ve just finished typing up a short paper for AP English when I hear the doorbell.
Ginger and Nutmeg, our Pomeranians, yap to greet the visitor. Knowing Dad is in the kitchen with Ryan, I let them answer it while I hunt down a T-shirt. I grab an old one since I’ll work in my studio tonight, and it’s pointless to ruin any of my good shit. Once I’ve pulled on a black shirt I should have tossed out two years ago when I began to fill out with more muscle definition, I pick my phone up off the bed. It buzzes in my hand with a text from the same unknown number.
Again.
Unknown Number: Soon.
I stare at the text, irritation simmering in my gut. The first text from this number pissed me off because it felt personal, but I chalked it up to the wrong number. It had to be, just like this text. After shoving my phone into my pocket, I tidy up my space and make sure to smooth out the wrinkles on my quilt. I survey my room and decide it’s in order enough for me to go downstairs.