Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She’s absolutely right about that.
I just hope I’m fucking right about my shit, too.
Harlow
What the fuck am I doing?
Really.
I can’t just let some stranger who knocked me up just uproot his entire life and move into my guesthouse, can I?
I mean I’m a huge fucking risk taker, but this feels more like someone should be asking me to try on this white jacket to see how the arms fit type of shit.
Resting my open palms flat on my slate gray marble island, I continue to glare at the empty hockey themed mugs waiting to be filled.
Am I really about to make him a cup of coffee in the morning before work?
Have I really already gone all Susan Homemaker in less than twenty-four hours?!
Wait.
Is it Susan or Susie?
I think it’s Susan.
Or…it could be Susie.
You know what.
It doesn’t fucking matter!
My name is Harlow, and I barely make coffee for my goddamn self.
The flashing light on my phone reminding me that I have unacknowledged messages finally convinces me to check them rather than ignore them any longer.
First order of business on the docket is deleting the three post-sport sessions’ greetings threads, each wondering when I’ll be making my way around the globe to them for our annual vacation fucks since hockey season is now over.
Yeah…that don’t fuck around lesson is one I learned the hard fucking way.
And one I’m glad I did in the states versus out.
Plus, I feel like none of them would’ve made even remotely acceptable dads even just on paper.
One is a part time DJ who’s still trying to be an Olympic skier despite being past his “prime” for it—he’s in Switzerland—one is a “fitness expert” who’s obsessed with getting “discovered” on IG—he’s in Sweden—and the last is a d-man—originally from Chili but now in Canada—who only takes two things dead serious in his life, which are fighting—on the ice—and fucking.
Again…thank fuck none of those “winners” managed to put a baby in me.
I damn sure don’t think this situation would’ve gone nearly as smooth.
Next up are the missed late-night texts from my best friends.
Winslow: Are you REALLY moving Bricks in?! That’s a joke right? A VERY VERY VERY BAD JOKE HENNINGTON!
Not a joke.
Just like the thing growing inside me isn’t a prank.
Haven’t mentioned that part yet.
Kind of waiting ‘til post this morning’s doctor visit to tell the rest of my inner circle. Margot already knows because, well, Margot knows everything, and she was the one who had to make the appointment for me. I was too busy puking or panicking or pretending that I’m totally okay with my dad not being around to hold my hand through this.
To tell me it’s gonna be okay.
That I’m still his little girl even when I have my own little girl.
Or boy.
Fuck, I hope it’s a boy.
I decided to delay replying to Winslow a bit longer and check the message from Letty.
Letty: How’s the new roomie?? Seen him naked yet?
Of course, I’ve seen him naked.
That’s how I got fucking pregnant to begin with!
Letty: And are we gonna talk about wtf the Cheetahs think they’re doing with Tye Gray???
It’s impossible not to smile at the very subject I actually want to discuss with someone.
Perks of having a best friend that’s totally into hockey almost as much as you are.
My fingers fly across to the keys to deliver a set of emojis to convey my feelings on the situation prior to exiting the area to check who in the hell left me a voicemail. Just the sight of her name instantly narrows my vision, but I decide to bite the biscuit anyway and listen to the pending message from the one person I typically don’t hear from unless it’s Christmas—because they don’t really celebrate Thanksgiving in Doctenn—my birthday—preholiday ball of course—or Mother’s Day—which considering Dad did most of the fathering and the mothering seems like an overstretch for her to receive any kind of attention that day yet she does. Considering the fact that it’s nowhere near any of those prescheduled phone visitation days means she can only be calling for one thing.
And it’s one thing I’m not going to give her.
After hitting the icon and the speaker phone button, I cross over to the space behind me to deal with the actual coffeemaker rather than what the morning brew will inevitably be going in.
“Princess,” my mother’s accented tone floods the open space, immediately receiving a sneer of disgust.
Penalty one.
I don’t like being called princess.
I never have nor will I ever.
She loathes my first name yet refuses to just call me by my last out of protest that as my “parent” she should have different rights than the others in my life. Had she given me more than the shading to my skin, long legs that won’t quit, and all of her retired ballerina grace perhaps she would.