Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Mac rolls her eyes. “Well, obviously I suspected at that point. But this is my first chance to be alone with Cassie. I wanted confirmation.” She lifts one delicate eyebrow. “It’s true, then?”
“We’re not dating, per se. It’s more of a fling.”
“Flings never stay flings,” Gen informs me. “They either turn into relationships, or someone gets their heart broken.”
I shrug. “I’m not too worried. We live in different states, so it will have to end regardless. We’re just having fun. And don’t worry, my heart’s still intact.”
Because I refuse to engage it. I had one slip, one minor setback the other day at my dad’s house, when my heart insinuated itself into what was supposed to be a summer of passion. You’re falling for him. Okay, well, I heard you out, heart. And I’ve decided to ignore you.
Since then, I’ve been making a conscious effort to not get emotionally attached. And to temper my expectations. Luckily, I’m very proficient at not expecting too much out of people.
Whatever’s happening between Tate and I, it’s better if phrases like falling for him don’t enter the equation.
Mac sets down her phone. “Want to stick around for a while? Take the dog for a walk on the beach?”
“I would,” I say regretfully, “but I have to go. I’m meeting my mother at a salon in town. We’re getting manicures.”
“Must be nice to have a mom to do that kind of stuff with,” Genevieve says, her voice surprisingly wistful.
“You’re not close with your mother?”
“Well, she just died this past spring—”
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all good.” Gen shrugs. “Even when she was alive, Mom and I weren’t close.”
“Oh, this manicure doesn’t mean we’re close. Trust me. We’ve always had a very strained relationship. But she’s been making an effort since she got to town, so I’ve decided to meet her halfway.”
Because the silver lining to this, the best-case scenario, is that we manage to repair the relationship and have something better going forward. Worst case? She goes back to being a raging narcissist, which I’ve dealt with my whole life anyway, so there’d be nothing new there.
I bid the girls goodbye and drive into town. The salon is situated on a street parallel to Main Street, making it easier to find parking. It’s a quiet location, sandwiched between a massage therapy clinic and a chiropractor’s office.
Mom is already there when I walk in, seated at one of the manicure stations. “Cass!” she calls, waving me over.
“Hey,” I greet her, while taking in the familiar surroundings. “I totally forgot about this place. Grandma used to bring me here when I was younger, remember? I’d always come home with neon pink nails.”
“And then you’d shriek bloody murder when your father and I tried removing the nail polish once it started chipping.”
“Because God forbid your six-year-old go outside with chipped nails,” I say dryly.
That gets me a genuine laugh.
“Would you like to pick your color?” my manicurist asks while I settle at the table next to Mom.
“Oh, no color,” I answer. “Just French tip.”
“No color?” Mom frowns. “That won’t look good for the grand opening.”
It’s the only critical remark she’s made in a while, so I let it slide.
“I’ll need to get another manicure before then, anyway. I have Beach Games this weekend,” I remind her. “I’ll be digging in sand and playing volleyball, so there’s no point doing anything too fancy today.”
She relaxes. “That’s right. I forgot. You’re competing for the Beacon.”
“Yes. Really looking forward to it, too. It’s going to be a blast.”
“Maybe I can convince your grandmother to come watch some of the events,” Mom suggests. “Or at least to attend the winners’ ceremony.”
“I honestly can’t envision us placing, let alone winning.” There’s some stiff competition this year. The dudes from Jessup’s Garage. The local fire station. Tate and the yacht club guys. The Hartleys. We’ll be lucky if we win one event.
We settle in to be pampered as our nails are washed, buffed, and painted. My manicurist is a quiet teenager with long black hair, while Mom’s is a super chatty woman in her thirties. She’s visibly pregnant, informing us she’s eight months along with her fifth child.
“Lord, you have four already? I could barely handle one,” Mom jokes, nodding toward me. I make a face at her. “And now five? You deserve a medal of valor.”
The woman laughs. “It sure is challenging at times. My boys are both under the age of six, and my girls are entering their tweens and becoming real handfuls, I tell ya.”
Once our color is done, we’re ushered to the drying area where we’re ordered to sit for twenty minutes.
“Five kids?” I whisper when we’re alone. “That sounds like a nightmare.”
“Five is too many,” Mom agrees.
A question bites at my tongue. It’s one I’d never have dreamed of asking in the past, but we’ve been getting along so well lately, and my curiosity gets the better of me.