Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I pull into the driveway. We picked up Mom’s car yesterday, and she’s parked it on the right side of the gravel—the side I usually park on.
“Gavin,” I say, killing the engine. “You talk about fucking her again, and I’ll throttle you. Cool?”
“Why do you care?”
“I know you’re joking and trying to get a rise out of me, so stop it. Okay?”
“Dude, I thought about her sweet little—”
“I’ll demolish you.”
Gavin bursts into a fit of laughter. Even though he’s frustrating, I can’t help my smile.
“Fine,” he says. “Women can buy their own flowers these days. That’s what I keep hearing, anyway.”
I grab my Thermos and phone and step into the cool evening air. The light in the kitchen is on, and shadows dance along the walls.
Excitement takes over me like a little kid at Christmas. Except that present has to stay wrapped.
I sigh. But at least I can look at it.
“I’m home,” I say. “I gotta go.”
“Hey, Chase?”
“What?”
“I’m just kidding with you. I mean, I’d totally fuck her brains out. But there’s one reason I won’t even try.”
I start slowly to the house. “Why is that?”
“Because from the moment she came into the bar the other night, she was all about you. She’s a nice girl. She’s fun. So you should just relax a little—let things work out however they do.”
“Oh, I know how they’d work out.” With my cock halfway down her throat. “That’s the problem, Gav. That’s the problem right there.”
“Hardheaded motherfucker.”
“It is what it is. Talk to you tomorrow, all right?”
“Later.”
I enter the mudroom and drop my shit on the floor. The distinct smell of Mexican food wafts through the air. My stomach growls, reminding me that I skipped lunch.
Once my boots are off, I open the kitchen door.
Oh shit.
Post Malone is playing through Kennedy’s phone on the table. She’s at the island with a spoonful of what appears to be brownie batter dripping into her open mouth. Megan stands at the oven with mitts on, laughing at my daughter.
I’ve come home a thousand times to see my mom and Kennedy busy in the kitchen. But never like this.
“Hey,” I say, barely loud enough for them to hear.
They both jump, twisting their attention toward me. Kennedy smiles brightly. Super weird. Where’s the combative teenager refusing to do algebra? Megan waves an oven-mitted hand.
“You two look like you’re having fun,” I say.
“Enchiladas and brownies,” Kennedy squeals. “I’m licking the bowl. Want some?”
“No. Not with your spit all over it.”
She scoffs. “Oh, like that stopped you from stealing my Dr Pepper the other day.”
“It was hot out, and you had good ice.” I tap her on the head. “This all smells amazing.”
“It’s Megan’s recipe,” Kennedy says. “Well, it’s someone’s recipe from Los Angeles who Megan used to know. We were both starving after school, so we ran to the store and picked up the stuff to make it.”
“I hope that’s okay,” Megan says.
Her face is glowing. Shiny eyes, rosy cheeks. She looks prettier than ever before.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say. “I should’ve left you money. I didn’t think about it. I’ll pay you back. How much was it?”
“It’s fine,” she says, running a hand through the air. “Don’t worry about it.”
I give her a look not to fuck with me, but she winks. Naturally.
“Got all of my homework done,” Kennedy says, stopping Post Malone. “I have a piece of paper for you to sign from Ms. Falconbury, but it’s not a big deal.”
“Ken …”
“It’s not.”
“Get it. I want to see.”
“It’s in my room.”
I point at the hallway. “Then go.”
She groans, huffing out the room and glaring at me the whole way. Ah, there’s the girl I know.
Megan holds her hands out. “I didn’t know anything about that until now. I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“It’s probably a detention,” I say, making my way closer to the stove. “Kennedy has this habit of skipping Ms. Falconbury’s class, and Ms. Falconbury has a habit of handing out detentions.”
“Well, she can’t skip class.”
“No, she cannot.”
I stop next to Megan and inspect her enchiladas. “And you said you could cook … what did you say? Decently?”
“Yeah.”
“This looks great, Megan.”
She beams. “Thanks. I didn’t want to oversell my abilities. I try really hard, and I’m pretty good with recipes. But what if I make something, and you hate it, and I’ve led you to believe I’m amazing? That would suck.”
“Or maybe you need to stop worrying about what people think of you and be confident in who you are.”
I didn’t mean it as a throwback to our conversation last night, but it does apply. And she applies it.
Her eyes twinkle with something—gratitude? Hope? I don’t know. But I do know that I could stand here all day and take it in.
Get away from her, Chase.
I head to the sink and wash my hands under hot water. Twice. Just to take up more time.