Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26670 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26670 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“I’m not twelve, Brian, I get it.”
He shrugs as I lean my hip against the counter and drink my coffee. The thought of Jensen fucking another woman sends a spark of jealousy shooting through me.
“Speaking of you not being twelve, why don't you put on one of those jacket things over your dress.” He motions at me. I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “The little jackets you have hanging in the closet.”
“A cardigan?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he says and nods. “You should put one on.”
“No,” I say simply, turning away from him.
“No?” I hear him repeat from behind me.
“I know you’re not used to the word no, but let it sit for a second. You’ll figure it out.”
I do have some cleavage showing, but that’s mostly because of the weight I’ve put on. I’m extra curvy all over, but it’s nothing I thought to cover up.
“You’d be surprised,” he mumbles from behind me. I peek over my shoulder at him. Could it be a woman that’s got him acting strange?
“I look fine,” I say, trying to ignore him.
“Actually, your scar is showing and—” I realize he’s looking at me with sad eyes and I know what he isn’t saying. The sight of it would make my parents think back on everything. I’m the one always trying to make everyone forget because I want my life to be normal and for them to not treat me as though I’m made of glass. He’s right, though, because I never let it show. I completely forgot to put something on that covers it up. The dress cuts lower in the back than my others, and when I bought it, I made sure to get a jacket that matched, knowing I’d need it.
I put my coffee down on the counter and go get my cardigan out of the closet. Would Jensen treat me differently if he found out about the scar?
I pull it off the hanger and put it on to hide the scar from the world. It marks me, but somehow it marks everyone else deeper. Out of everything that happened that day, that’s what I hate most because I’m always treated with kid gloves. Jensen didn’t treat me that way and maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to him.
“This all the stuff you need?” my brother asks, breaking my train of thought on Jensen as he motions to the pile of stuff I’m taking to my parents’ house.
“Yes.” I glance around, making sure I’m not forgetting anything. It’s the first Thanksgiving that I’m not living at home and it feels so different.
“Something came up, so Jensen is going to try and meet us there,” Brian tells me as he checks his phone then hands me a bag. He grabs the rest of the baked goods I made and nods. “Let’s roll.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask as my heart starts to race.
What if he woke up and realized what he’d done and got out of here as fast as he could? Maybe he’s out blowing off the steam he hadn’t been willing to do with me last night.
“I’m sure it’s fine. He’ll probably show later.”
“Probably,” I mutter in disappointment.
“The man does what he wants. I’m shocked I got him to stay here one night.” He shrugs as I follow him out the door.
When we’re in the car we make our way to Mom and Dad’s in silence. Neither one of us wants to talk as our minds are elsewhere.
I fight the urge to cry because I’m more hurt than I should be, and I know I’m being silly. The car is barely to a stop and my parents are coming out of the front door to greet us.
“Oh, I love that dress on you!” my mom says as she pulls me into a hug before my dad does the same. Being here makes me feel a little better. I’m going to enjoy Thanksgiving with my family. If Jensen has somewhere better to be then I know where we stand.
“Come in! We don’t have much left to do.” Mom pulls me inside and I hear my dad say Jensen's name to my brother but can’t make out what was said after that.
“It’s strange not having you here on Thanksgiving morning. I think for Christmas you should stay the night before,” my mom says as she pours the gravy into a serving dish and we do the finishing touches on dinner.
“Sure,” I agree absently. My mood is still sour. I told myself I wouldn’t let this bother me, but still it lingers.
“You okay, sugar? You seem out of sorts,” my mom says, using the nickname she gave me when I was a little girl.
“Yeah.” I look up at her and see a face that’s so similar to mine. “I was thinking maybe I should start dating.”