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)
There are cheese, peppers—probably also homegrown—green onions, a whole bunch of herbs on everything, and a dollop of orange sauce—probably something hot—on the side of the plate.
I also don’t notice how when Apollo walks to the table, he practically saunters. Not in an arrogant, swaggering way. He just…floats. Glides. He looks like he brought all the freaking sun into the room with him, and he’s glowing from within. Not gloating. Glowing. He’s happy, and he wants me to be happy. He did this because he genuinely thought it would make my life better.
He almost reminds me of the little kid he was before he went away for greener pastures like really good high schools, college scholarships, and swimming in boatloads of money.
I’m not bitter. I’m not jealous. I’m actually happy he made it in life.
But the little girl in me is still deeply, deeply hurt that he didn’t bother to check in on her all this time.
“So,” Apollo starts as he takes a seat. The chairs are the same soft, mossy velvet as the ones upstairs, but these all look like throne chairs with really tall backs and crazy arms that come out the sides at wild angles. “I think we should come up with a plan to get our dads talking again. If we force them to make that first step, maybe they’ll be able to work things out.”
I pick up my fork and resist the urge to be spiteful and venomous. The skunk isn’t around. I don’t see her. But I wish she were around because I’d like to pet her. She looks soft, and she has a cute little skunk face. I also like her feet and the way she waddles when she walks. I like that Apollo saved her the same way he’d once saved broken, wounded animals every so often when they needed it, back when we were kids. At least he’d try.
I remember the way he was the only one who got me through my mom leaving.
It’s too late. You left. You saved me, and then you abandoned me, and I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it. Bringing me to your wonderful, fantastical mushroom house and trying to save my dad and his company and our whole lives isn’t enough to make me forget.
“I don’t think it’s that easy.” I even manage not to sound royally pissed.
Which I am, because when I taste the eggs…dear god, they’re good. They’re so, so good. I suddenly realize I’m starving.
“I know it won’t be easy. That’s why we need a failproof, beyond excellent plan.”
“It will have to be one hell of a plan.”
“I vote that we wait three weeks and then tell them we’re pregnant.”
I choke and cough loudly. Eggs nearly come flying out of my mouth. And my nose. My eyes water. In the end, I force myself to swallow and then reach for the tall, perfectly chilled glass of water. “What?” I barely have any breath left to yelp it, but yelp it I do. “Are you insane? That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard!”
“It’s a great plan. If we’re having a baby, they have to get along.”
“They don’t. They can just keep hating each other. Haven’t you ever heard that bringing a child into the world as a way to fix problems is the worst thing a person can do?”
“Naturally. But there wouldn’t actually be a baby.”
I can’t have this conversation. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and talk about babies with this man. It’s making me hot under my skin and making me squirm in the chair. The velvet feels like extra friction, and I’m going to burst into flames. This house is probably equipped with sprinklers that go off at the first whiff of smoke, though, so I’d probably be okay.
Or not.
I feel like my nipples are going to combust. They’re probably smoking right now. I imagine smoke seeping through the armholes of my T-shirt, so I quickly slam my arms over my chest. Just in case my nipples are peaking. There’s always that too. The sprinklers would only make it more obvious. Damn him and his talk about babies because now it has me thinking about his babymaker.
It’s not that gross. This isn’t the friend who was once as close to me as a brother. That boy is long gone. In his place is a man I don’t even know. A man hot enough to need sprinklers of his own.
“I know,” I hiss. And then I realize. He’s joking. He’s making the world’s worst joke, and I just reacted in the world’s worst way.
I’m not rising to this. I’m not going there. I’m not going to make this about us when it’s only about our dads. “I’ve tried everything over the years to get my dad to see reason. I’m sure you have, too, even if it was from afar.” I don’t even bother with disguising the edge in my voice. “Nothing is going to work. Even if we come at it from the way you cook chicken and go low and slow, it’s not going to work. Fast and hot isn’t going to work either. They’re just…entrenched in their silliness. My dad had some good ideas, and your dad didn’t like them. My dad started it as a side hustle because he couldn’t not do it. It’s never taken off and become boomingly popular, but it works. His software is important. I feel like your dad might have done some poisoning of the well, so it’s hard to get contracts. It’s hard to get the word out there. No one will give him the time of day, and he’s not so great at marketing. I’ve tried to get him to dedicate more money to that department, but he won’t even hear of it. The company is so small and basic, and we’ve barely scraped by, but sometimes great ideas take a long time to come to fruition. All that time is needed to perfect them.”