Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
It’s a lie, but I don’t call her on it. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid to poke and prod at whatever mess is inside her head because she might tell me what I’ve been scared to hear—that she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her. That she should leave me.
It’s going to happen soon anyway. She’ll go to college. I’ve been saving up for that. She’ll get a real job, not one that involves her blending smoothies for the locals. She’ll find a man.
My stomach clenches at that. The idea of another male laying hands on her spins me up in a bad way. It’s because I raised her, I tell myself. No parent is excited about their girl getting it on with some punk. My feelings of possessiveness are normal. Or normal for how we’ve lived.
For so many years, I’ve had her to myself. While the outside world burned down around us, while I bloodied my hands and traded all my humanity for a few greenbacks, I’ve been able to escape to the bubble that is Bitsy.
She’s growing up, though, and I can’t hold her forever. I realized that the other day when she tried on that dress. She looked like a woman and it scared the shit out of me. I glance over at her head bent over her science notes. The sunlight streaming through the windows paints parts of the curly black hair red. My gaze treks along her smooth forehead and down the small slope of her nose. On either side of her cheeks there’s a tiny smattering of freckles that she hates and I love.
I drink in her beauty, stopping at the shoulders. Since she started getting boobs, I’ve refused to look from the neck down—until she tried on that damned dress. Now I can’t get the image of her figure out of my head. She reaches for the lip balm and spreads the cherry gloss all over her lips.
I push away from the table and stalk to the fridge.
“You hungry?” She jumps up.
“Nah.” I open the freezer and stick my head in. “Not for real food. I thought I’d get a snack.”
She pushes me aside. “I’ll make you something. Go sit down.”
“I’m not hungry,” I protest, but my words are ignored.
Bitsy thinks I’m hungry, and in this house that means she’s cooking me something. I don’t tell her I ate at Marjory’s while Mary and Beefer were entertaining Cesaro. I plant my ass in the chair and try not to watch her every move.
“The Shake Shoppe job going okay?” Seeing Cesaro makes me doubly glad Bitsy’s nowhere near Marjory’s.
“Yeah. Customers are awful, but the money’s good.”
She’s making under ten dollars an hour. Kids her age on the street are making ten times that an hour, delivering drugs or pickpocketing or selling themselves. Yeah, her money is good.
“I think half the reason I want to draw for a living is because I won’t have to interact with people.” She cracks a couple eggs in one pan and heats up another. Looks like we’re having toast and egg sandwiches.
“You’d have to meet with clients,” I point out.
“But it’s not like a regular stream of people bothering me and asking me to make weird concoctions like almond milk and orange juice and then complaining it tastes awful. And, if I drew for a living, I’d be surrounded by my pens and paints, so that would make up for any forced interactions with other people.”
“Okay.” Mentally, I run down a list of nearby art galleries. I’ll have to see who runs those and what their vices are so I can be sure that Bitsy lands her dream job.
As if she reads my mind, she spins around and shakes her spatula at me. “And I don’t want any help from you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a grown-up. I can do this sh—stuff all on my own.” She dismisses me and returns to frying up the eggs.
“Okay.” It’s easier to appear agreeable than tell her the truth—as long as I’m alive, she’s never going to be alone. “Movie tonight?” I suggest.
Bitsy brings over my snack. I admire the fluffy egg filling and the golden-brown bread, evenly toasted on both sides. She’s turning out to be a good cook.
“Sure. How about that anime? The one with the two kids who swap bodies?”
“Sounds good to me.” I can’t read the captions for shit, but I like the music and the imagery. I take a bite of the sandwich and let the white bread melt on my tongue. Yeah, she’s growing up to be a real good cook.
“Let me finish going through these notes and then we can watch it.”
She re-applies herself to the schoolwork and I finish the food. After I’m done eating, I tidy the kitchen. She only messed up two pans and a spatula, so it doesn’t take much time. With a sigh, I force myself to go sit in my bedroom so I’m not bothering Bitsy while she studies.