Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“We do need more shells to finish making the curtain for your door,” I said to Hazel. “Maybe we can find more mermaid toenails this time. I love those. And—“ I started, getting cut off by a loud wail that had me hopping out of my chair, rubbing Isaac’s head as I passed on my way to the one bedroom.
And there she was.
Clara.
The girl who saved us all.
Whether anyone else realized it or not.
“Oh, big feelings,” I said, slipping the pacifier in her mouth to calm her while I changed her, so I could get her a bottle.
I’d tried to breastfeed. God, how I’d tried. I never had issues with my other two. But I just didn’t seem to produce nearly enough, something my doctor had attributed to a hormone problem. Though, of course, he’d offered no actual solution to that issue.
I mean, I wanted to nurse simply because of the bonding. I had fond memories of many hours rocking in the nursery, stroking soft heads and singing songs.
But also because I knew that formula would be an expense that was going to be hard to swing.
I mean, not that it was an option.
I had to do what I had to do.
Even if it left no spare money.
Isaac needed new shoes, and I was trying to calculate how long I had before I could replace them. Could I swing two more sessions at the range first? Was I being selfish even to debate such things?
And soon, it was going to be time to start thinking about school supplies.
I shook my head, knocking the thoughts free. At least until the kids were asleep later, and my mind was free to wonder and worry.
“Look who wants to join us for dinner,” I said as I carried Clara out to the kitchen where I whipped up a bottle, then sat across from the kids to feed the baby.
“So, beach tomorrow. And then I think I might have to leave you guys with Miss Patricia for just an hour,” I said, hating it. Mainly because the kids didn’t exactly love the woman. But she was the only support I had at the moment. And I tried so hard not to stick the kids with her more than absolutely necessary.
“Why?” Hazel asked, not even trying to hide the whine in her voice.
I couldn’t blame her.
Miss Patricia had to be almost seventy with that kind of cool way of talking to children some older people had. No softness. No “your feelings matter.” And her apartment had the distinct scent of mothballs, cedar, and cat litter. Despite her not actually having a cat. Or, at least, not anymore.
There was nothing for them to do there, save for whatever activities I packed on the rare occasion I left them. To go to the range and the occasional odd job I couldn’t turn down because we desperately needed the money.
“Well, this might be something exciting, actually. I found a little house that someone is renting. That means that they want someone else to live there for a while. I was hoping it might work for us.”
We all collectively hated our apartment. It was old, and smelled like cigarette smoke, with water that never seemed to get hot, a toilet that was forever backing up, and neighbors who were constantly having screaming matches day and night.
And, well, it scared the hell out of the kids. Not that I could blame them. It bothered me too.
On top of that, there was the super. A man who made it incredibly clear to me as he stared down my blouse at my tits, that he was the only person in the world with a key to my door, so we were ‘safe as could be.’
I would have tried to brush that away. Some guys just didn’t realize they were being creepy.
But every single day, he found a reason to be in my way, to eye me up, to ask me where the kids were, to make suggestions about him having the hour free too.
It just felt… like something that was going to come to a head eventually.
I wanted out before that happened.
Sure, the cottage in the ad was tiny. It might have actually been smaller than our current apartment, which almost seemed impossible. But it also looked really new and well-kept. And there were no neighbors connected to it to worry about. Or a creepy super.
No.
Not a creepy super.
Just a stupidly hot owner.
By all accounts—you know, in the two very short conversations we’d had—he seemed like a decent enough guy.
Not the type to pretend to talk to you about when rent is due while he discreetly—or not so discreetly—ran a hand over his junk.
Gross.
I’d taken a—cold—shower afterward. Not because I was hot and bothered. Because I felt greasy by being near him, and as I mentioned, there was never any hot water.