Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“You’re just gonna ignore me?”
“Dad… it wasn’t a thing. I mean, it wasn’t supposed to be a thing. It was one stupid book. How was I supposed to know that Master Choke would hit the New York Times?”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“Because…” I mean, there’s really only one reason so I might as well just admit it. “Because I was embarrassed, OK? It’s romance. Men don’t write romance. They write sci-fi. Or political thrillers. Or horror. I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
I just want him to stop talking. I just want to get home and be alone. The Twitter war is just starting and we’ve already got a hashtag. #FraudTwins. Nice. That’s great. Just great.
“Fine,” my dad says. “Fine. I guess I will leave it up to my imagination.”
I scoff. And then mumble.
“What was that?” Dad asks.
“I said,” I say, loudly and with a tone, “you probably would’ve made fun of me.”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Oh,” I scoff again. It’s very close to a snort. “Why? Why, Dad? Because every time I see you, all you do is remind me of what a loser I am. ‘Get a job, Steve. Stop mooching off your sister, Steve.’ Sound familiar?”
“I don’t think that’s fair. You were lying to us.”
“What I choose to do with my life should not be a condition of your love. I mean, I guess if I was a drug dealer or a fuckin’ kidnapper, fine. I can see the disappointment. But what the hell? The fake job title I had with Essie was perfectly legitimate. It’s her job, you know! She’s in charge of my marketing. And she’s fuckin’ good at it too.” I pause, take a breath. “Obviously. Since I have a mansion on the beach at Malibu and forty-two million dollars in assets.”
My dad almost chokes. “Did you say—”
“Yeah, I’m loaded. Go brag to your friends about that.”
We don’t talk the rest of the ride home. Dad’s phone buzzes non-stop.
No one calls me. It’s like the romance world has already put me on the blacklist. My dad starts a text convo, with Mom and Essie, probably. I just turn up the music and ignore him.
It’s only four and a half hours.
It’s only four and a half hours.
Six hours and fifty-three minutes later—traffic from three crashes on the 101 is an awesome way to end a road trip with your father—I pull into my garage. There isn’t too much to unload, so I just get out and start doing that, pushing banners and leftover swag boxes into the built-in cupboards.
My dad goes upstairs without a word.
Essie arrives a few minutes after me, and Mike starts unloading their car, while Essie takes Mom upstairs with Dad.
Mike sighs.
“How was it?” I ask him.
“She just kept asking us why. ‘Why did you have to lie? What did we do?’”
“Did you tell her?”
“I tried to stay out of it. You know I love your mom, right, Steve?”
“Sure. And she definitely loves you.”
Mike winces a little. He’s wearing a dark-blue polo with a pair of those ‘adventure’ shorts in khaki, his brown hair all slicked back and neat, no shadow on that jaw—ever. And his eyes radiate compassion.
He’s… kinda perfect. He really does look like a soap star. And I’m really satisfied—like super satisfied—with having Mike as a brother-in-law. I would trust no one else with my sister as much as I trust him.
But he’s kind of a kiss-ass and I’m not in the mood. “What, Mike? What are you thinking? And for once in your life, can you please not change the subject and just spit it out?”
“Well.” He sighs again. “I just think… they kind of…”
“They kind of what?”
“Treat you like… well, the way my parents treat me.”
“What?” I’ve never actually met Mike’s parents. They live in Tennessee or something. Essie and Mike go there, they never come here. So I’ve never had the chance. “What do you mean by that?”
“You know. ‘Why is your wife the breadwinner, Michael? Why can’t you get a real job, Michael?’”
I almost guffaw. “What are they talking about? You fixed up all those trailers on the beach. That’s like fifteen million dollars in assets.”
“Yeah, but…” He starts laughing.
“But what?” I’m kinda laughing too.
“They don’t know it’s you, either, Steve. They think Essie is SS. And I told them that you own all the trailers at Paradise Cove. So every time we go home, all I hear is ‘Why can’t you be more like Steve, Michael?’”
“Shut up.”
“I swear to God.” He even crosses his heart. “When I met Essie I just had the one trailer, remember?”
“Of course. Essie only had one too.”
“First of all”—he holds up a finger—“I came to LA to be an actor. So they were not on board with that. Second, when I told them I bought a run-down trailer that really didn’t even have a roof, they thought… you know, trailer park. I was living in a trailer park.”