Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
From her reaction to seeing his face in my sketchpad, I know if he hasn’t already been fed those lies, it’s not too long before that happens. The slight pang I felt as I sat up in bed was relegated to the boneyard with all the other emotions I’ve laid to rest over the years—no point in mooning over something that never was. I felt the sting from the slap Becky had given me the night before and worked my jaw to ease the soreness.
By the time I turned on the water in the shower, I’d made up my mind not to give Gabriel a second thought; there was no point in daydreaming about him no matter how innocent those dreams were.
That was easier said than done, though. The heart has a mind of its own, and mine kept reliving the moment he came to my rescue. For someone who’s been starving for a hero for more than half my life, I guess it’s too much to ignore when someone who looks, sounds, and feels like that comes into my orbit.
I got a tingling down my spine and flicked the water off, pretending that it was the cause. In the back of my mind, I kinda sorta knew it wasn’t. My cheeks blushed red, and I clapped my hands against them as I looked in the mirror in the little space I’d wiped clear of steam fog. My eyes looked bright and uncluttered as they peered back at me. So did the red splotches leftover from that slap.
For the first time, as I got dressed, I wished I’d become one of those girls who liked to wear makeup and play dress up, but I never learned how not that it would’ve done me any good if I had. My school uniform hung off of me, making me appear like a shapeless glob, and my wild mane of curls was their usual unruly self. I’d been morphing into my mom since the age of fourteen or fifteen, something that had almost made Becky lose her shit.
My burgeoning breasts had been a thing of discussion for a very long time, and since she couldn’t very well lop them off my chest, she’d come up with the idea of making me wear clothes that were too big for me in order to hide them. My face, the face of her old friend, she couldn’t do much with, so any form of enhancement was forbidden.
My ears were still bare, no piercing as of to date. That had been another bone of contention when I was twelve and wanted it so badly. I’d wanted to finally start wearing the jewelry that mom had left, especially a pair of diamond studs that had been passed down from mother to eldest daughter in my maternal family for generations.
Victoria had laid claim to some of mom’s jewelry as well, and it’s the first time I’d fought back. Grandma Eloise had been called on the sly, and the kerfuffle that ensued is one for the books. The end result being that the jewelry went back in the safe until I turn eighteen, and if so much as a stone were missing, dad would be sued in court.
Since mom had left a will and there was no way around it, no matter how Becky droned on about faaaaamily, dad didn’t cave for once. It was also the last time I’d spoken up about anything because it had cost me my relationship, what was left of it, with my Grandma and aunts. Becky, in her bid to spite me for not letting her daughter wear the jewelry that was rightfully mine, had convinced my dad to cut them off completely.
I grabbed my bag and left the room, not willing to go any further down that slippery slope. Making sure my face was as dull as milquetoast, I walked into the kitchen where breakfast was being served. Thank heaven for upper-middle-class salaries that could afford household help because Becky can’t cook, but Ella sure can.
“Morning, Miss. Gia, your toast will be ready in a minute. I took my seat at the table where I was sure to be alone for the duration, something I look forward to because it’s one of the only times in this house where I’m assured of some peace and quiet. Victoria never eats breakfast; she has a love-hate relationship with food since she was about ten.
Dad is usually gone by now, and Becky does not leave her bed before ten. Except for weekends when dad is home, and she has to pretend not to be lazy. For these few minutes at least, I get to have someone else fuss over me though all I have is wheat toast and scrambled eggs with home fried potatoes, mom’s favorite.
Though Ella is nothing like Helen, the cook we had when mom was alive, she’s not too bad either. She asked about school and what we were working on, and I appreciated it though she tends to ask the same list of questions day in and day out. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out which way the wind blows, and I don’t blame her; she needs to eat and keep a roof over her head. So, if getting too close to me will put her job in jeopardy, it makes sense that she’d keep her distance.