Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“In that case, you should take the forest-themed room. Not only is the outdoors great for relaxing outside the house and inside it, but I’ll convince Bitty Kitty to sleep with you. Pets are great stress relievers.”
Spinning around with a huff, Patience grabs her suitcase and wheels off. Remarkably, she chooses the right direction. The other room is an under-the-sea theme, which is just as fun. My room is a secret for now, but it has its own unique theme too. The house has a movie theatre, a library, an art room, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a large living room.
It’s pretty much Patience-at-age-seven inspired.
And the outside? I guess that was my vision, but I’ll get to that later.
For right now, I’ll say she had good vision, even back then.
She was pretty much the best person. She’s still pretty much the best person ever, even when she’s busy hating me. But it’s not her fault. I know what I did was an asshole move, even if I thought it was the best way to help.
And speaking of helping, my own dad was pretty darn livid with me after. He still hasn’t cooled down yet, not when he found out I was planning on helping Patience’s dad.
Everything will just take some time. Everyone will calm down, and we’ll all forgive each other, talk it out, and become friends again.
I hope.
It might be ideal and idealistic thinking, which never got anyone very far, but I live in a mushroom, so that should tell you a lot about where refusing to be a realist gets you.
CHAPTER 4
Patience
I feel like the right, mature adult thing to do would be to suck it up at breakfast the next morning and figure out a way to make my nightmare of a life work.
I have this whole plan rehearsed by the time I get downstairs. Downstairs, I might add, is reached by a spiral staircase that is carved from wood and includes all sorts of vines and leaves. Coupled with the stained glass, the murals on the walls, the incredible light fixtures all made of blown glass in different formations, and the thousand other details like the super duper soft bed shaped like a lily pad that I spent the night in and the gauzy green curtains that look like a bunch of leaves sewn together, the trim in the room at the ceiling that has wooden squirrels and acorns all over it, and the unbelievable upholstered furniture in shades of mossy velvet…and yeah, okay, the place is starting to grow on me.
Ugh, who am I kidding? I love it. I love it so freaking much, and that’s the most maddening part. I don’t want to love it. I don’t want to love any of this. I want to just keep on hating it, being ornery, and not wanting this. At least for one more day. I don’t want to give in and be charmed by this one-of-a-kind, fairy tale house. I don’t want to have soft feelings about the not-cat skunk-cat.
At the table, which is freaking carved out in all sorts of scrolling vines and is shaped like a darned tree with a dark green glass top, I find that breakfast is already served.
I’m not used to anyone anticipating my needs.
For the last few years, Dad has been pretty preoccupied with work, so I’m the one who takes care of things at home. I make all the meals. If I didn’t remind him to eat at the right times, he’d completely forget. There’s no one else in my life to worry about me at this point. Not because I don’t have lots of people who love me and who I love right back, but because I’m an adult, and I’m big into selling the whole I’m fine deal. Because I am. Fine.
I’m fine that Dad is probably telling our extended family some version of the truth and some version of a lie about this marriage. They haven’t blown up my phone yet, but then again, I haven’t turned it on.
I’m still fine.
I’m fine that all my creepy dolls arrived last night with my other things, packed neatly in boxes that look as immaculate as when I put my things into them, so someone clearly shipped them with care. I’m fine that my dolls look like they’re enjoying their extra creepy selves in their new theme room because, god, who doesn’t love the forest?
I’m fine that my life has become a dumpster fire where I have zero control.
Wait, no. That’s not true. I do have some control. I do. And it’s time I use it instead of pouting.
Apollo looks wonderfully chipper. Asshole.
I force myself not to notice his freshly shaved jaw or how his manly scent wafts throughout the kitchen and somehow both overlay but don’t overpower the fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly cooked ham bacon—because I hate the slices—and freshly cut tomatoes that look like they’ve come right from his garden. Or someone’s garden. I didn’t check out the backyard yesterday. I basically refused to come out of my room until he told me my boxes had arrived.