Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
So no. I don’t think I’d handle being in Luke’s place any better than I’m handling being in my own. The way I’m choosing to deal with it is to not think about it. Shut down, shut it out, and focus on something else. I guess that’s exactly what Luke does.
Luke steps into the living room where Shade and I are sitting on the couch together. After a busy day getting the tree and buying decorations (I was careful to budget the expenses), we both took a break and parked ourselves on the couch to wait for Luke. I think we are both tense in equal measure.
When Shade spots his dad, he jumps off the couch and hurtles straight at him. Luke bends down, and Shade wraps his arms around his neck.
Ouch, my heart.
I don’t care how much you dislike a person. Seeing them dote and love on their kids is always going to get you right in the sensitive spots you don’t know you have.
“Dad! Look what we did! We got a tree! And we made things for it! We bought things too! Do you like it?! Come look!”
I didn’t tell Shade that I talked to Luke about getting the tree. Or that he knew it was coming. Luke actually acts surprised, and then he smiles.
It’s not the first smile I’ve seen from him, directed at Shade, for Shade, but this one does something funny to me. I know what it feels like to have a crush on a guy. Granted, I might have experienced it later in life than most people, but I do know what those butterflies in my stomach mean. I know what those tingles in certain spots signal.
So, it’s time to focus on the tree and not on Luke. Not on the tingles, and not on the butterflies. They’re probably moths, harmful moths.
“Do you like this one? We made a paper chain! Look over here! This one’s a squirrel!” Shade is all over the place after he drags Luke to the tree.
I guess I have to admit that Luke can be a pretty good sport when he’s called on to do it. He acts enthusiastic enough, exclaiming over each and every ornament Shade picked out.
“Look, this one’s a mermaid cat. Feeney picked this one. It has pink fur around the tail.”
“I see that. What an odd thing.”
“I think it’s awesome,” Shade says, slightly put out.
“I think so too. Pink hair. Huh.”
While Shade and Luke study the tree, which was a forty-dollar special at a department store—the usual green fake kind (I wanted pink or purple because those are super cool, but they were also super expensive)—and all the ornaments we picked out, which we also carefully bought with a budget in mind, I slip away to the kitchen.
I dig out the ingredients for dinner, which we also bought while we were out. I’m taking the barbeque starter and the tray of chicken out the patio door when a deep voice stops me in my tracks.
“What’s that? And what on earth are you doing?”
I turn slowly like a criminal caught breaking and entering. I stare Luke down levelly, not wanting him to see how his voice suddenly affects me—affects me in the way of making me nervous. Because he doubts I can do anything at all, and that’s all it is. I hate how he’s always waiting for me to fail. Those shivers going up and down my spine, they’re fear-of-failure shivers.
I got this. Seriously. I watched some video tutorials. How can I fail?
“I’m going to barbeque this chicken.”
“Sweet mother of…uh…chicken nuggets. There’s no way in heck you’re barbequing.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I challenge. Shade is still in the living room. I can see him standing over at the tree, so it’s just Luke and me, about to spar this one out. “I burn the chicken? Well, it’s not going to happen. I know what I’m doing.”
“I very much doubt that,” Luke snorts. “The worst that could happen? You’ll burn your face off because you’ll turn on too much propane. Or you’ll light the whole backyard on fire. Or even the house and everything.”
“I don’t think that’s actually possible.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “You could still burn your eyebrows clean off. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Fine. Then go turn it on. I’ll do the rest.”
He actually gives me a comical look. As in, he thinks I’m funny. He’s amused by me. That should piss me off, but instead, it secretly thrills me. Because, you know, I’ve apparently become a lost cause who needs those kinds of thrills.
“Not a chance.” Luke steps forward, plucks the pack of chicken out of my hands, and heads past me.
He fiddles with the barbeque—a huge stainless contraption—for a few seconds, and it lights up. Of course, there’s a switch. Why didn’t I think of that? He adjusts the heat and stares at the flames coming up through the grill. It is pretty intimidating. Can a person really burn their eyebrows off? I’ll have to look that up later. Not because I find it funny but just because I want to know.