Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
When I don’t look up, Thatch’s voice is the first to fill my ears.
“Like we said before, Finn, we’ve all been there,” he says, and his voice doesn’t hold his usual edge of teasing and sarcasm. “But from years of experience, I can tell you that you only get that look when it’s someone who means something.”
“Yeah, man,” Kline agrees. “It’s been decades since I almost screwed everything up with Georgia, but I will never in a million years forget how it felt during those moments that I thought I’d lost her for good.”
Every single guy at the table voices their very similar experience. Even Wes, and he talks about Winnie—my sister—like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
The way these men talk about their now-wives is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my house growing up. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my dad tell my mom he loves her. Or that she’s beautiful. I’ve never heard him compliment her or say something just because he wants to make her feel good.
All I’ve seen is a man treating his wife like she’s an object that doesn’t deserve respect or love. I’ve seen my dad treat my mom so cruelly at times that, at the age of thirteen, I found myself on my knees beside my bed, praying to God and asking him to never let me treat a woman that way.
But I can’t avoid that he’s half of my DNA.
Kline starts to deal another round of cards, but my mind continues to race. I might be looking at my cards and doing my best to follow the table conversation, but I’m preoccupied with a startling new notion.
Did I push Scottie away because, deep down, I’m afraid I’m like my dad?
Scottie
As of three o’clock today, all my exams are done, and winter break is here.
How I survived the past month and a half while secretly nursing a broken heart—while facing the boy who broke it no less than two times a week—and still managed to keep a 4.0 GPA and not miss a single cheerleading practice or game is both a mystery and a miracle.
Our team even secured a spot at NCA Nationals at our competition in Alabama two weekends ago, and I didn’t make any mistakes during our routine. Which, trust me, wasn’t an easy feat. Some of the changes Coach Jordan made at the last minute put me into stunt formations I haven’t been in at all before.
I run a brush through my hair and add a little hair spray to secure my curls in place. As I apply a fresh coat of mascara, I silently curse Julia and Kayla for convincing me to go out tonight. It’s not that I don’t want to celebrate the end of the semester with my friends—my body is just screaming for some actual rest.
Between the heartbreak of everything with Finn, cheerleading, more messages from unknown numbers, and exams, my stress steak is way overdone.
My phone vibrates on top of my nightstand, and I accidentally brush mascara onto my eyelid. Undoubtedly, at this point, just the sound of a text message causes a trauma response.
Still, more times than not, it’s a friend, not a foe, which is why I make myself take the time to check.
Wren: I’m sorry I sprang the whole mom thing on you.
Oh yeah. I guess when I was listing my stressors before, I kind of forgot one.
My sweet sister.
Wren is five years older than me and a great role model in every way. She finished college last year and moved home with my dad and me to work at a local café while she takes online classes toward her master’s. And while I know the transition she’s going through being back at home has been hard, she’s handled it beautifully.
She’s always been better at the hard stuff than me.
Including our mom.
A couple weeks ago, while I was at home for Thanksgiving, she told me she’d started talking to our mom again. That she was sober, faithfully attending AA, and really turning a corner. It’s a tale as old as time, though, and I’ve been having a really hard time believing in these particular fairies.
There are so many ugly memories and traumas tied into everything I’ve ever known with her. When I was two, she left me strapped in a car seat in a hot car, and the only reason I survived is because my seven-year-old sister—who had been left home by herself for hours—walked outside to look for me when Mom passed out on the sofa.
In the early days of our childhood, Mom hid her alcohol consumption from our father—which wasn’t hard since he worked so much. But as we got older, it became too obvious for her to hide.
Me: I’m just having a hard time understanding while you believe her this time.