Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 63563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“That curse?” Ellis’ dad grunts as he gets out of the car. His feet hit the curb, and then he’s firmly planted on the sidewalk, looking back at me.
“Yes?” I’m honestly not sure how to get into this at the moment. This isn’t just a yes or no answer, and even I don’t understand the semantics of it. Not like anyone would believe it anyway, which reminds me that I seriously need to talk to my granny. At this point, she is the only one who can help me out. And I seriously need help. This whole curse thing is becoming a little too dangerous, especially when I’m around Ellis. It’s making me want to think unthinkable things.
“You’re familiar with the saying about curses being blessings in disguise?”
I slowly work my head up and down in affirmation. I think if he knew what kind of curse we were talking about, he wouldn’t see it as a blessing. In fact, I shouldn’t see it as a blessing. I shouldn’t be getting a strange pain in my chest when I think about finding a way to outsmart the curse, getting the ring off Ellis’ finger, and going our separate ways so I can get on with my fake fiancé and fake marriage. But that was what I wanted, though, wasn’t it?
“Should I call Ellis when I’m done?”
“Oh, right. Penny has my number. She’ll give it to you, and you can call me. I’ll pick you up. Take your time. I have a couple of errands I can run and a few calls I have to make.” To my granny. To tell her there’s been a disaster and to demand she lifts the curse she cursed us with because she’s a badass granny who is batshit crazy.
Ellis’ dad shuts the car door but then opens it again and leans in. “Remember what I said about the pig and your dingleberries.”
“Yes, sir, I got that. I don’t think I could forget. It’s quite a graphic picture.”
He just nods in satisfaction before heading up the steps of the vibrant candy-coated Victorian house. I wait to make sure he gets in, then I drive off and start making hands-free demands on my cell phone to get my granny on the line so we can get down to business and talk about the curse she so lovingly cursed us with. Gull dang meddling grannies anyway. Got to love them because what else can one do if one does not want to be doubly cursed?
CHAPTER 13
Ellis
My dad’s house is a heck of a lot cleaner when he and Ash get back a few hours later, but I’m basically on my last limb. This house gives new meaning to bone-weary as I can literally feel the exhaustion radiating from the marrow of my bones. Maybe that’s too dramatic, but try vacuuming and carpet-cleaning a shag carpet that is approximately six thousand years old with enough dust to destroy any vacuum cleaner in a matter of seconds.
The nice seventies lino is all scrubbed and glistening—if ancient orange and yellow-flowered lino can glisten—the windows are washed on the inside, because heck no, I wasn’t about the tackle the outside as well. The dishes are done, all the laundry is finished, and every single bed has been laundered and remade. I probably just about broke my dad’s washer, putting that much load of curtains in at once. It made a horrific clunking sound and nearly hopped out of its confines in the laundry room. Loud bangs and clangs were all it had to say for a good twenty minutes, and then it stopped with the loudest clunk, but thankfully, it washed the next load just fine. I guess it will live to see another day.
As my dad walks through the kitchen door, I swipe back a sodden strand of hair. All of me is wet from my hair down, and unfortunately, it’s not from the dish or laundry water. It’s straight-up sweat. Don’t fool yourself by thinking lady sweat doesn’t stink the same as man sweat because I’m sure it’s no better, and I probably smell like the wrong end of a cow at the moment.
My dad doesn’t care as he smiles at me. Yes, he actually smiles, and that is worth its weight in gold. He rushes forward, his arms outstretched, and I rush into them. We grasp each other, hugging it out sweaty person style. Not that he’s very sweaty, but more like I have enough for the both of us.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says in his deep, raspy voice. He uses this voice for when things get really emotional, and I know he’s just a few steps away from breaking down, which I’ve only seen him do a few times in my life. It tugs at my heart and gets the tears flowing, and I soak my dad’s shirt with them as he smooths my hair. “I’ll keep going to the sessions and start processing through all the things I’ve bottled up for so long. It’s my choice as to whether I want medication, but I think I’m going to hold off for a few more sessions and just get the talking part further down the road before I start with other options. I’m going to get better, and I’m going to be there for you. You don’t have to be the parent anymore. You’re always looking out for me.”