Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“The drinks are cold,” she says. “I forgot to bring ice, so hopefully this will be fine.”
I don’t know what to say other than I should say something. “This is … wonderful. Unexpected. It’s more than fine.”
She finishes unloading her bags and then turns to me. “I’m going to get right to the point.”
Oh shit. I nod hesitantly.
“Banks told me what happened today,” she says, eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
She sighs. “Sabrina? Is that her name?”
I nod again.
“She better have been glad I wasn’t home.”
What? A slow smile splits my cheeks.
“Come. Sit,” she says, patting the counter. “You need to eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hop on the counter as instructed, not sure where this is going. “I apologize for the spectacle today.”
She unwraps the sandwich. “What are you apologizing for? You weren’t the one acting like a lunatic.”
My heart swells.
“When I was in high school, I played softball. Second base. Not to sound too much like my children, but I was good,” she says.
I giggle.
She grins. “My grandfather used to come to my games, and every time he’d show up, there was a fifty-fifty chance he was drunk off his behind.” She digs around in the bag and pulls out plastic cutlery. “He would stand behind the batter’s box and just shout all kinds of madness. Not always bad things, but he’d go over the top, clapping and whistling and yelling—the whole bit. And I became known at school as the girl with the drunk grandpa.”
I take the sandwich she hands me.
“It was the worst. Kids are just mean, anyway,” she says, setting a drink beside me. “I was so embarrassed by him. It was awful.”
I take a deep breath. Suddenly, I see right where this is headed, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
I watch this beautiful, successful, powerful woman work around my dumpy apartment, bringing me a sandwich she went out of her way to create just for me. If this was for Banks or Ashley, I’d understand. But me? I’m so confused.
Maybe she doesn’t know Banks and I are in an argument.
I set my sandwich on the counter beside the drink. “Damaris, Banks is mad at me, I’m pretty sure.”
She smiles. “Well, this isn’t about Banks. This is about you.”
“I don’t understand.”
She leans against the counter and folds her arms across her waist. “My son is worried about you. Now, I’m not coming here to play matchmaker because you’re both adults and can figure that out yourselves. But you’re important to him, so you’re important to me. You’re important to all of us, Sara.”
The lump that plagued me all evening settles in my throat again. I can barely swallow over it this time. Maybe it’s because I’m trying not to tear up at the same time, and I don’t multitask well.
“I don’t know why you are all so nice to me,” I say, my voice filled with my unshed tears.
“Well, you know Banks and his predisposition not to acknowledge boundaries.” She smiles. “He gets that from me.”
I laugh, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
“Can I help you with anything?” she asks. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. I know that can be weird since I’m Banks’s mom, but you have Ashley. And now Pippa and Brooke.”
She’s talking to me as if I’m one of them. As if I’m a Carmichael.
It’s a magical elation and a terrible joke at the same time. The sensations push and pull me until I’m dizzy.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Are you okay?”
I sniffle. “I just don’t think I have the emotional capacity for your family.”
“That’s okay. Neither do I most days.”
I laugh. She pats me on the knee and goes back to her bags.
“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.
“Of course. I hope you always are.”
“This will probably sound … Well, I don’t know how it will sound. But the truth is, I don’t necessarily know how well I’d fit in your family.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Why do you say that?”
I hop off the counter. There’s too much nervous energy in my body to sit still any longer.
“I’ve always thought I was hard to love,” I say, catching a hint of a smile on her face. “But tonight, someone told me that I have a hard time accepting it. And maybe both are true. I don’t know. One does not exclude the other. But you all … you have your shit together, pardon my language. You’re on top of your stuff. I live here. I have credit card debt, not gonna lie. And, worst of all, emotions make me itchy, and you’re all full of them.”
She laughs freely and spins around. Her face is lit up.
I grimace. “I wasn’t joking. I know that all sounds horrible, but you have to see what we’re working with here.”