Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Sad around the eyes?” My father squinted at me. “Maybe a little.”
“I’m getting a sense of loneliness and discontent within your aura.”
Allie snickered as she washed her hands at the sink.
“Stop it,” I said. “My aura is fine.”
“You don’t have to pretend with us, sweetheart.” My mom’s voice softened. “We’re your family.”
“I’m not pre—”
“Money can’t buy happiness, you know,” she went on. “True happiness comes from our connection to others and to our higher selves. It doesn’t come from things like yachts or private jets or fancy cars.”
“I don’t own any of those things, Mom.”
But she was on a roll. “It comes from allowing yourself to be loved and offering love in return. Isn’t that right, Stan?”
“That’s right, Barb.” My dad took my mother’s hand across the table.
“And you don’t need to be rich or famous or brilliant to find love.” Her eyes misted over. “You just have to accept yourself as you are, and open your heart.”
“Actually, I think being rich, famous, and brilliant makes it harder,” said Allie. “You’d get a lot of people wanting to be close to you, but maybe for the wrong reasons.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy to find,” my mom clarified. “I’m just saying that we’re all worthy. Don’t you agree, Hutton?”
“Yes,” I said, mostly just to get her to stop talking.
My mother didn’t understand. No one did.
I’d tried to have relationships. I’d attempted to let people in. But dating was a fucking nightmare. Even maintaining friendships was hard because I rarely accepted invitations. And when I did, the amount of energy it took to appear confident enough to just hang out and make conversation was exhausting. But I was good at it, so nobody ever understood why I hated clubs and parties.
I was overreacting, Wade always said. I was being too antisocial. Too introverted. Too picky. Too dramatic. Everyone gets anxious sometimes. Couldn’t I just take some drugs or something? Go to a shrink? Didn’t I like getting laid?
My response was usually something along the lines of, That’s not how it works, asshole.
I’d tried the meds, but they gave me headaches. Therapists just wanted to explain the fight or flight response to me again, as if I didn’t understand it.
And of course I liked getting laid.
I was good at sex. It was a relief to let my body take over, to let it hijack my brain and call the shots. Also, I was an excellent student of female pleasure, and as a high achiever, I was deeply gratified by a woman’s orgasm—the louder the better.
But sex wasn’t a miracle fix for everything that was wrong with me.
I might have been worthy of love, but I wasn’t wired for it.
Simple as that.
After my parents left for their walk, I took the kids to the park. There were no Prancin’ Grannies in sight, but there were a few stroller moms who gave me the usual looks that made me feel like they were all talking shit about me.
I did my best to keep my head down and enjoy the time with the kids—I pushed Keely on the swings, watched Jonas jump off the slide instead of slide down it, and scored Zosia’s cherry drop off the bar a perfect ten. We stayed for over an hour before the kids’ faces started to get pink and I realized I’d forgotten to put sunscreen on them like Allie had asked.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “Your faces are getting red, and your mom is going to get mad at me about it.”
Back at my sister’s house, I heated up a couple cans of SpaghettiO’s for lunch, which was the extent of my cooking skills. When they were done eating, I smeared sunscreen on their faces, and we went out to the backyard.
My sister pulled into the garage as I was filling a small plastic pool on the lawn with water from the hose. The kids stood with their feet in it and sucked on bright green popsicles that were melting fast in the July heat, dripping down their chins and hands onto their shirts, which already had orange spots from the SpaghettiO’s.
Allie smiled at the kids as she approached. “Wow. Look at you guys.”
“I said I’d watch them. I didn’t say I’d keep them clean.”
She shook her hair like she was in a shampoo commercial. “Do you like the new cut?”
I squinted at her. “Looks the same to me.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Hey, someone in the chair next to me at the salon mentioned she was going to her ten-year reunion tonight. Is it yours?”
“Probably.”
“You’re not going?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I focused on the water pouring from the hose. “I already have plans.”
“Poker night? Those are your big plans?”
“I didn’t say they were big. I just said they were plans.”
She tilted her head, the way I imagined she did in therapy sessions before she pushed on an emotional bruise. “Is Felicity going?”