Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“Well, yeah,” I answer, dumbfounded. “Of course she does. Wouldn’t you do that for your parents?”
He flinches like the question physically hurts. “Probably not,” he admits before adding, “Wouldn’t have to. One of my siblings would be the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth choice before that responsibility got down to me. Even then, my parents would probably opt for a nursing home over my taking care of them. I’m not exactly the family favorite.”
He chuckles like that’s supposed to be funny, but I can hear the bitterness in his voice. Some people hide their hurts behind humor, and too often, it works. But I can hear the difference in Kyle’s usual good-natured laugh and the harsh tone he has now.
“That’s sad,” I tell him honestly. “My parents aren’t the best, but I can’t imagine pawning them off to a nursing home and not taking care of them myself.”
I don’t tell Kyle this, but when my Papa was in the thick of his sickness and Mama was nearly killing herself to take care of him, I thought about moving in with them. But as much as I wanted to help, they’re too proud to admit they needed it. Instead, I resorted to ‘overcooking’ for the day so I could drop dinner by, and ‘trying out new recipes’ to feed them for the rest of the day. I think I went through a hundred ‘new wrinkles’ on food during that period.
I know my brother gave them some money, help I couldn’t provide, but I did what I could—cook for them, clean the house, and spend as much time as I could with them to make sure they were okay.
Kyle inhales deeply and says, “One of my sisters-in-law, Janey, works at a nursing home. She’s kind-hearted and smart as hell, and the place she works at has daily card games and monthly parties. They’d be looked after there. Hell, I’d live there if I could. All the pudding I can eat sounds like a sweet deal.”
He makes it sound like a resort, which I know it’s not, but for once in my life, I choose not to argue. “You have five brothers and sisters?” I ask instead. “That sounds like a lot.”
“Some days, it’s five too many,” he jokes, but then, more seriously, he adds, “Four brothers—three of whom are married—one sister, one niece, one nephew on the way, Mom and Dad, and a dog. You?”
He rattled it off like a football lineup, which I guess makes sense in his mind, but I’m still trying to make sense of a family that big. Quickly, I reply, “One brother, who’s married. One niece, one nephew, Mom, and Dad.” I don’t want to talk about my family, though. It’s a sore subject, and I’m not clear-headed enough to handle that right now. “What kind of dog?”
It's the right question to ask because he launches into a monologue about his beloved pooch. His blue eyes are bright with affection and his smile nearly radiant as he tells me about Peanut Butter, who not only is the color of the sandwich spread but also has an affinity for it, going so far as to steal the jar out of the pantry at every opportunity. He also apparently doesn’t mind for shit, runs nose-first at your crotch to greet you, and still charms everyone he meets.
By the time the waitress drops off our breakfast, I feel like I know not only more about the dog, but about Kyle.
Kyle runs a finger through the sticky yumminess that’s spread over his stack of pancakes. “He’ll know I’ve been cheating on him as soon as I get home,” he says wistfully before sticking his finger in his mouth, licking the peanut butter from the digit. “I can’t get anything past my boy.”
For some reason, his gesture sends heat through my whole body. I decide I’m having a hot flash, though I’m decades away from menopause, and hope I can squash it with a bite of my own breakfast. I don’t swipe my finger through it, instead going straight for my fork and a too-big bite. But as I start to chew, I moan. “Uhmagawd, thisa falicious!”
Kyle’s smile says he knows exactly what I said. “Told ya.”
He’s not bragging, not giving me a hard time, but rather seems pleased that I’m enjoying it. He waits for me to take another bite before picking up his big fork and digging into his own, not letting any honey or peanut butter escape. And he’s right, the pancakes, tea, and water do help with the hangover.
Not that I’d admit that, especially to him.
“Now for the super-secret, tastebud-bomb combo,” Kyle says, picking up two slices of bacon and crumbling them up, sprinkling the bits on top of his pancakes. “Feeling brave, Miss Becerra?”
Little does he know that even coming here is a demonstration of my bravery. And my stupidity. I don’t have time for flirty, charming, annoying assholes who make my life harder than it already is. Yet, here I sit, smiling and having a good time, my headache all but forgotten.