Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“Lily,” my mom says. “You can always call me Lily.”
“Thanks, Lily.”
At this, she leaves us, gently shutting the door behind her, and Donnelly returns to the duffel pocket. “I love your mom. She’s one of the greats.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, trying not to think about his mom and how she hasn’t been that for him…ever. It crushes my heart. The penthouse flooding might be a less distressing topic. “Do you think Cordelia tampered with the pipes?” It’s a running theory in my family group chat.
“The little old lady? Nah,” Donnelly says lightly, leaving behind the duffel. I didn’t see what he took out. “That was her first time inside the building. Plus, I got a good look at her when the first pipe burst, and she was as shocked as the rest of us.”
Jane found the psychic through her sweet mother-in-law Nicola, who knew about Cordelia’s precognitive abilities through another friend. Those channels are innocent enough. I’d question Cordelia’s intentions more if she knew Grandmother Calloway, but she’s far removed from that ugly social circle.
But Jane did fess up to telling Cordelia to stay positive. No negative or sad or grief-stricken readings. Which made more sense. Moffy and Jane would never want a psychic to tell any of us we’re going to die soon, and to nip that possibility, Jane ensured Cordelia would spread good news and happy vibes.
Security doesn’t believe there’s foul play. Not when there’s zero evidence.
Donnelly feeds Moondragon fish flakes. Then he wanders to my off-kilter bookshelves and studies them. He tells me, “All I know is that she either has some special power or she’s just good at reading people.” He doesn’t mention the broken Spider-Man mug. Just spins around and examines my childhood room like he’s archiving the fauna of a new planet.
“See anything you like?” I ask.
He swings his head. “Looking at her.”
My heart soars, and after sufficiently drying Orion, I glide over to my boyfriend. He hooks his arms over my shoulders and we kinda sway in the middle of my room. “Thanks for letting me into your life, Hale.”
“Thanks for letting me into yours, Donnelly.”
He blinks for a second. Faint worry creases the corners of his blue eyes. He staggers on a word, but then breathes out, “You want me to grab the tub from the car?”
My printed stories were safely preserved in a plastic tub, which Donnelly ensured made it into the Volvo before we left the penthouse. Likewise, his digital tablet had been stored in a drawer. It dawned on me on our ride here that outside of Moondragon and Orion, our most prized possessions were my writing and his art.
“It’ll be okay in the car,” I say quietly. Is he…is he not telling me something? I’ve sensed this before, but I’ve never pushed. I still worry about prodding and detonating our relationship. Everything feels so right. Why would I change that?
Maybe it’s too naïve. Maybe it’s not how real, lasting relationships work.
So I ask, “What’d you take out of your duffel?”
“I was just making sure it was dry in there.” Going to his duffel, he pulls out a slip of purple paper, the corners wet. He hands it to me.
Cordelia’s prediction of our future. Of whether we’d have kids. Maybe she wrote exactly how many.
“You wanna read it?” Donnelly wonders, combing a hand through his damp hair. “‘Cause I could wait, if you wanna wait.”
I stare at the folded paper. “I could wait,” I say softly. “It’s not anytime soon, anyway. I mean, we’re not even…we haven’t even…” Engaged. Wedding. Marriage.
“Yeah,” Donnelly bobs his head a few times, but now he’s trying to feverishly read my expression. Are we on opposite sides of these big deal-breakers?
He rubs a hand over his mouth, our eyes locked with a knowingness that neither of us verbally acknowledges. We’re not ready to implode us.
I’m not even sure I’d want to survive that implosion.
66
PAUL DONNELLY
Static clings to the laundry as Farrow and I pull clothes out of the dryer. He tears his black sock off my Scorpions shirt and tosses the tee to me. “You’re so lucky you threw your shit in with my load and not Lo’s.”
“He’d enjoy it. Everyone loves my loads,” I joke.
Farrow squats, digging deeper into the dryer. “See, this is a pet peeve for about ninety-five percent of the population.” He throws baby burp rags at me, which I fold for him. Farrow is part of the five percent who don’t have a problem with sharing a wash and dry cycle. That’s only if he likes you though.
“It’s what I always say.” I stack the burp cloths. “Nothing wrong with a frugal bitch.”
He sifts through mixed up pairs of boxer-briefs. “You can be a frugal bitch all you want, but saving ten bucks on the water bill isn’t going to register with your girlfriend’s rich dad. What is going to register is having to touch your underwear.” He chucks my black pair at me. “You’re also so fucking lucky you don’t wear the same brand as Maximoff.”