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)
She shrugs and slumps into a chair by the fireplace. “I don’t know. Pap always says not to shower or be on the phone in a storm. Doesn’t make any sense to me, but he also texts me his name after every message, so there’s that.”
I snort. “He does?”
“Yeah. Love, P. Or Call me back, P. Or Did you want some fried potatoes for supper? P.” She shrugs again. “Like, yeah, Pap. I can see the number and your face when you text me. It’s on top of the screen. There’s no need to identify yourself.”
Something about that is ridiculously adorable, and I can’t help but giggle. Kennedy, although not as amused as I am, laughs too.
She snuggles down into the chair. “What are you watching?”
“This woman went missing for fifteen years, and the only clue about where she went was a yellow bandanna next to her cell phone on the side of a road. Long story and I’m not sure if it’s relevant yet or a red herring. I’m ninety-nine percent sure her husband did it, but the investigators seem to think it was the neighbor. So who knows.”
She hums.
“What do you like to watch?” I ask.
“Nothing, really. I YouTube nineties music videos. Sometimes I’ll watch something if everyone talks about it, but I usually don’t like it enough to become obsessed.”
“Nineties videos, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Did you know your uncle Gavin hasn’t seen the ‘Opposites Attract’ video by Paula Abdul?”
“What? That’s a classic.”
“I know.”
“I’m a big Paula fan. She doesn’t get enough clout from my generation.”
“Agreed,” I say, impressed with her stance on this important fact.
We sit in silence for a few minutes before my stomach growls. Kennedy looks at me as I press my hand to my tummy.
“Hungry?” I ask her.
“I’m always hungry.”
A kid after my heart. “Let’s go make a snack.”
“Who did your nails?” she asks as we walk to the kitchen. “That color is the bomb.”
I hold up a hand and inspect the shitty job I did before bed last night. “I did them, and this is not my best work. Please don’t judge once you see them in the light.”
“What color is that?”
“Offset,” I say, grinning at the memory of the night we came up with that name. “We named it after … Well, I can’t tell you that because you’re a minor. But someday, I will, if you want to know.”
She slides onto a barstool on the island. “What do you mean you named it?”
I find the peanut butter, caramel, and mini cookies I bought at the grocery yesterday. Then I find the apples.
“I mean, I named it,” I say, pulling out the cutting board they use for veggies. “Well, I can’t say that. It wasn’t just me. But the team worked late one night, and we might’ve had some wine in plastic cups, and we came up with Offset.” I hold up a hand. “It didn’t make the cut for fall last year, but I snagged a few samples because I loved it so much.”
Kennedy’s brows pull together, and the dimple in her chin, like her dad and uncles, shines.
I take out a knife and begin to peel the apples. “You do know that I worked for Iyala Nails, right?”
Her jaw drops to the counter. “No, I did not know that.”
I smile at her reaction. This must be what it feels like to be a celebrity.
“Are you joking?” she asks, still in disbelief. “You did not work for Iyala.”
“No, I did. How do you think I got the pink tote from the spring collection?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you were cool or something. You worked for them? For real?”
I laugh. “Yes. I promise. You can look at my email if you want. They got ahold of me last week to offer me my job back.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I slice the apples and set them aside. Then I smear a few spoonfuls of peanut butter on the board.
“It wasn’t a good fit anymore,” I tell her, relishing the peace that comes with those words. “I worked there for a long time and had a lot of great experiences. But I’m just not a California girl.”
“Where do you live?” she asks, watching me drizzle caramel on the peanut butter.
“Well, I’m from Dallas. That’s where my mom lives. So I guess I live there.”
She looks confused.
“I’m between jobs,” I say, snapping the caramel bottle closed. “Sometimes being an adult sucks.”
She throws her chest onto the counter and sighs dramatically.
I laugh. “What’s that about?”
“You think being an adult sucks? Try being a kid.”
“I was one once, you know.”
“Yeah, but a single dad didn’t raise you.”
Okay. Where are we going with this?
I place some cookies, chop a banana, and add it to the board's periphery.
“You’re right,” I say carefully. “But I was raised by a single mom.”