Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
I end the message with a sigh and tell Mr. Prickles, “Yeah, I know. It’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I should have stood up to her years ago.”
Mr. Prickles agrees.
Then, he has a few choice words to speak of his own on the subject of the fur potato currently making himself at home in our space.
“I know, I know,” I say, watching Tater Tot tear apart one of the old dog toys Keanu Reeves left here the last time he slept over. “But turns out his bottom teeth need to be filed by humans.”
It’s some kind of birth defect, and that’s why they stick out so much. We noticed Tater Tot really starting to struggle to eat even apple slices by our last day there. It was like his lips were getting tangled up in his own teeth or something.
Seven called a vet friend of his to ask about it once Wendy Ann returned with our cell phones. He came out to do an exam and in just a few minutes delivered the news that Tater Tot was never going to be able to live successfully in the wild long term. Then, the vet said he would fast track my application to be on his animal rescue team, so I could legally keep the fur potato as a pet, so…
“He’s a sweetheart, really,” I add to my cranky cactus. “I promise. He’ll grow on you. Like a sweet, grunty fungus.”
Mr. Prickles shoots me a sharply needled look.
I lift my hands in the air. “I know, I hate rodents, too, but…look at him. He’s precious. And he’s had his shots and the vet filed his teeth. He’s at least fifty percent less creepy looking than he was before, and Seven promised to shift him over to living at his place as soon as we see if he’s comfortable around the chickens.”
Mr. Prickles rolls his spines and mutters something about poultry being for eating, not cuddling.
“Oh, come on, don’t be that way. You know Sprout loves her chickens.” I pick him up, cooing closer to his pokey little cactus belly. “And I love you. We’re going to find a way to blend into one big, happy family. I promise.”
And…we do.
Three months later, I’m fully moved in with my new family at Seven’s place, where I intend to stay for the next hundred years.
Or however long the universe gives me.
No matter how long it is, I already know it won’t be long enough.
Epilogue
Wendy Ann McGuire
The last single McGuire sibling standing.
(Or rather, running, away from her mother’s
matchmaking as fast as her spindly
nerd legs can carry her…)
“All those tattoos. I’ll never understand it.” Mom sighs and shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips as she adds, “Though they looked nice with the flowers she chose for the bouquet.”
“They looked amazing,” I agree as Seven spins my sister around the floor for their first dance. “She looks amazing.”
Binx is gorgeous in a form-fitting white satin gown and fancy up-do, but it’s the expression on her face as she gazes up at Seven that makes her shine.
She’s so in love, so happy…and I can’t help feeling smug about it.
After all, if Sprout, Seven’s eight-year-old daughter, and I hadn’t parent-trapped these two, this wedding might never have happened. I catch Sprout’s eye across the ballroom and grin, shooting her a subtle thumbs-up. She grins and gives me two enthusiastic thumbs-up back as she sways to the music, clearly ready for the first song to be over so we can join the lovebirds on the dance floor.
“My baby girl,” Mom says, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “All grown up and married and starting a family of her own.” She pats my arm with a sniff. “That just leaves you, sweetheart. Which reminds me, Petey Sinclair is here. Remember Petey? From when you were little?”
My smile falls from my face.
Maybe if I pretend that I didn’t hear her, she’ll let it go.
“You know, Petey Sinclair,” she adds, proving she’s still my mother and not about to let anything go. Ever. “You used to play in his sandbox when you were little, and his mother and I were still doing those Tupperware parties. You had so much fun together. You’d be out there digging for hours.”
“No, I don’t remember,” I say, though I do. I remember Petey Sinclair being a pain in the butt who hogged the good shovel and kept insisting I play with his wrestler dolls, even though I have always had the good sense—even at five years old—to hate wrestling.
Mom huffs. “I find that hard to believe. You played together all the time.”
“I was five, Mom,” I mutter.
“So?” She lifts a hand to fluff her immaculate bob. I don’t know how she gets her hair to behave so well, but it’s not a trait I inherited. Fifteen minutes after leaving the hairdresser in the bridal suite this afternoon, my brown curls were frizzed all over. “I met your father when I was five, and I certainly remembered him.”