Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“It’s very nice. I like it a lot,” I say.
“Good. I’m glad you chose something because you loved it and not because you think people of your income bracket should live in a certain type of place. I like the fact that your clothes are nice too, but they’re not all designer. Or have you been dressing down because it’s pudding and not investment banking?”
I like this—this easy banter. I consider it easy even though most people don’t like it when other people speak their minds. I’m not sure what it is about society that values falsity, but it’s always made me feel uncomfortable. Even so, I realize how much I’ve fallen into that trap. Doesn’t everyone? Are honesty and vulnerability the same thing?
“I don’t care about designer names. I just like clothes to fit right and be of good quality. Enduring.” I use the word on purpose, and her smile widens again. It sends a shiver racing up my spine that somehow ends up in my dick. Not sure about the anatomy there, but it happens.
“What’s your set of things I should know?”
We’re back to this. I was hoping I’d given her enough. Without the sheet, I’m drawing a blank. She seemed to tell me about herself so easily and confidently. “I’m an only child. I was a particularly difficult baby. My mom probably didn’t sleep for three years straight. She was too exhausted to think about having another baby, and then when I finally started to calm down and become a regular child instead of a monstrous beast baby, she thought about doing it all again and just really didn’t want to go down that road.”
“But they were rich. Couldn’t she have hired a nanny?”
“She didn’t want to have to do that. My parents have always had a cleaner who comes twice a week and someone who does the yardwork because they have a huge yard, and neither of them likes the upkeep, but when it came to me, I was all hers.”
“That’s a good thing to know. But wasn’t she worried like crazy about you? That there might have been something wrong?”
“Definitely. They took me to tons of doctors, but everyone said I was fine. I was just fussy, and I liked to cry. I don’t remember any of it, but when my mom tells me about some of the particularly bad nights, it makes me want to apologize on behalf of my baby self. Not that she ever speaks about it with anything but love.”
“I get that. Babies are hard. I don’t know anyone who has had a particularly easy experience. I think parenthood is mostly a lot of fluff and myth. At least, that’s what people want you to think it is. Of course, it’s love, but it’s also a lot of desperation, hard work, feeling horrible, doubting yourself, and tons of sacrifice. I don’t think I’m ready for that anytime soon. You?”
I don’t know why, but the words stick in my throat. Maybe this is what I can’t do. I can make money in a thousand clever ways, and I can go into a room full of hostile individuals and calm them down. When it comes to business, I can face the toughest challenge with the utmost patience, but talking about myself? Really getting into detail? Even with myself? I just can’t do it.
Maybe this is why I couldn’t tell my mom no when it came down to it.
The vulnerability thing again.
No, honesty and vulnerability aren’t the same.
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
“That’s fair.”
“I have an average-sized extended family,” I tell her.
“Who made all the money?”
“My great grandpa. He and my great-grandma were farmers, and they did the old classic and had land that contained oil. It wasn’t a big old pile of money they got to sit on, but after having almost nothing their whole lives, they were smart with their investments. They didn’t stick it in a bank. They bought a property, probably as something to leave their children. That property ended up making money when it sold, and their other investments did well, too.”
“Ahh, so the classic money makes money.”
“Yes, it was quite unoriginal.”
“I don’t know…” The way her eyes flash draws me in again. It makes me want to lean forward across the table and brush my fingers over the dimples that appear. But I make sure my ass is firmly planted on the bench seat. “I’ve never met anyone who knew anyone who got rich from oil. That’s actually pretty cool. Like finding gold. People did it, but I don’t know anyone who knows anyone who did.”
Talking about myself isn’t as painful as it usually is. Why is it only now that I realize I’ve pretty much done everything my whole life to avoid it, ever since I was a kid? It’s easy to divert attention. I’ve been a master at it. I like making people laugh. I don’t like talking about serious stuff, and I don’t want to be one of those people who takes myself too seriously, either. I think it’s all around safer to keep my opinions about things to myself most of the time. I’ve worked hard to be able to make good decisions, and part of that is training myself to be impartial and emotionless.