Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Excuse me?” I say over their laughter. “I work hard for ten, twelve hours a day and then come home to you fighting with Neve or crying over algebra or—”
“Whoa, let me cut in here,” Megan says, holding up a hand. “Crying over algebra is excused. Come on, Chase. Have a heart.”
“Yeah, Dad. Come on. Have a heart.”
I wonder if Megan hates algebra and mornings or if she’s rolling with the punches to win over Kennedy. Because by the looks of things, they’re forming a team. And for whatever reason—reasons that I won’t give too much thought—it’s cute.
“Algebra never killed anyone.” I smile. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Megan winces. “Well, except Hippasus.”
“Hippa-who?” I ask.
“Hippasus. He was an early follower of Pythagoras. Legend says that he was executed for demonstrating the existence of irrational numbers.”
“I knew it.” Kennedy throws her arms in the air. “I knew math was dangerous. I’ve felt it in my bones for years.”
Megan smirks and shrugs.
“Can I use this as an excuse to get out of algebra?” Kennedy asks. “I think death by the mob over irrational numbers is a solid argument.”
“Good try. No,” I say quickly before shifting in my seat toward Megan. “How did you know that? That’s the most random thing to know.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Kennedy laughs. “It didn’t matter, but now it does. How did you know?”
Megan’s cheeks flush. “Fine. When I was a teenager, my mom married this guy, Rick. They were married for almost ten years. Anyway, he had a son, Rodrick, and I despised that kid. He would come over on the weekends, or every other one, and was such a know-it-all. It didn’t matter what you were talking about; Rodrick knew all about it. I got so mad at him once that I brought up menstruating, thinking he’d bail on that conversation. But nope. He tried to tell me all about how women’s bodies worked, and I’ve never wanted to punch someone in the face so hard in my entire life.”
“How old was he?” I ask, chuckling at the idea of a younger version of Megan trying to fight.
“Fourteen.” She looks at Kennedy, who is watching her, amused. “Fourteen-year-old boys don’t know shit. Ah,” she says, making a face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Said what?” Kennedy asks.
“Shit.”
I laugh. “You’re fine.”
“Yeah. You’ve met my dad and my uncle Gavin. I mean, everyone is allowed to curse but me,” Kennedy says.
“Because you’re still building your vocabulary, and you don’t need to resort to cheap words to express yourself,” I tell her. Again. “And if you,” I say, turning to Megan, “know some random fact that goes against this theory, keep it to yourself this time.”
Megan narrows her eyes, trying to decide whether I’m kidding. I toss her a wink and watch the air exhale from her lungs.
“I would like to reiterate that part about fourteen-year-old boys not knowing shit,” I say, grinning. “That was the best fact of the day.”
“You’ll never think boys know anything, Dad.”
“You’re right—because they won’t. I know because I was one.”
“So when, exactly, does that change?” Kennedy smacks her lips together. “Otherwise, how do I know you know what you’re talking about? You’re a grown-up boy.”
“Simple. When someone, not just boys, can make decisions based on character and not emotions, you can give things they say a little credit.”
Megan nods emphatically. “Oh, I like that. I like that a lot.”
“That’s good, huh? It came to me one day while I was driving home from work.”
She lifts a brow. “So you think about emotional maturity while driving home from work? What do you think about before going to sleep?”
Last night, your ass. “Depends on the day.”
A slow smirk slips across her lips as if she just read my mind.
I shift in my seat again. Change the subject, Chase. Fast. “On a serious note, I’ll update the school contacts list with Megan’s name tonight. Ride the bus home, Kennedy, and do homework before you even think about asking to do anything.”
“Dad. Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
She groans as if I just told her she was grounded. “I thought that since Gram isn’t here, maybe we could modernize things a little bit. You know, ease up on the reins.”
“Negative.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
Kennedy doesn’t give up. Instead, she banters back and forth, countering every point and reason I give with a surprisingly strong argument. A part of me is exhausted from the constant bickering with her—the poking at boundaries and her challenging me on practically everything.
But another part of me is proud of that very thing.
I don’t want her growing up too ready to agree with anything someone says. I want her to think. To stand up for herself. To not be afraid to push back for the things she wants. Things that matter.
Even if it is biting me in the ass at the moment.
Megan watches us with an amused grin, her chin cupped in her hand and elbow resting on the table.