Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Val shifts on the sofa. The bowl of chips nearly falls to the floor.
“Yeah,” she says. “But what you’re describing is a responsible adult. We need to be honest here that Jared was never one of those.”
“Exactly. Which is why, on the other hand, I think it’s better off this way. I mean, even if he was consistent about coming around and following through on promises . . . he’s still Jared. He’s still not the best role model in the world.”
My spirits sink because, somehow in the land of mom guilt, that feels like my fault too.
Val puts the chips on the floor and levels her gaze with mine. She’s ready to defend my honor because that’s what Val does . . . and why she’s my best friend.
“Don’t go there,” she warns. “You started dating him at, what—nineteen? You likely expected that he would grow up. Mature. Get a job. You had no way of knowing that he would fail to launch.”
No, but I wasted over half a decade of my life believing he would.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask.
“Sure. What happened at work today?”
I make a face at her. She holds her hands to her sides.
“You said to change the subject,” she says.
“I was thinking to something happier.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about how my nails look bomb today.” She holds her fingers toward me and wiggles them. “This color is Decadent Peach, and I really think it’s the color of my aura.”
I snort. “I totally agree.”
“But do you?” She drops her arms to her sides. “I sense a bit of sarcasm there, Miss Yellow Aura.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” I grin at her. “I think you chose that color based on the name because it lets you think of Shane Kensington every time you see it. It gives you an excuse.”
Her cheeks flush, which feels like an accomplishment on my end. Val doesn’t blush.
“He did say my ass reminds him of a juicy peach,” she says, flipping a long lock of red hair over her shoulder.
“That could mean that you need an antibiotic.”
We laugh as the water heater kicks off. Soon after, Ethan’s footsteps pound across the ceiling, and he appears in the doorway.
“Going to bed since you’re being mean,” he says, the words tempered with a smile. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, buddy. I’ll come up and check on you in a bit.”
“Heard you’re playing baseball,” Val says. “Chicks love baseball players.”
Ethan grins. “It’s the only reason I’m playing.”
“Ethan!” I say, my jaw dropping. “No chicks for you, sir.”
He laughs. “Good night, Mom. Night, Val.”
“Night, stud,” Val hollers after him. She winks at me. “He’s so ridiculously cute. Don’t you wish you had another one?”
Every day.
My back presses harder into the recliner as I blow out a breath.
I’ve always wanted a houseful of children. Probably because I know the loneliness of growing up alone.
My dad’s alcoholic benders were long and emotional. I’d be forced to sit in the kitchen for hours and listen to the tragedies of his life—and be expected to convince him, a drunk adult, that the terrible things that had happened to him weren’t his fault. I had to do this when I barely understood the situations. And because he’d rail on me if I gave the wrong words of solace, I tried remaining silent.
That backfired in the worst ways.
I was always walking on eggshells with Dad. And then he’d sober up for a couple of days and be the nicest guy anyone had ever met. It was such a mindfuck. It made life completely backward. I never got to be a child, blissfully ignorant of real life.
I paid the utilities out of his disability check at the age of eight, forging his signature on the checks. I was responsible for cooking the canned vegetables and deer—which he poached all winter—by the time I was ten. And when I was twelve, I knew exactly what lies to tell so no one would know that my black eyes were from my father hitting me. After all, I couldn’t let us get separated. No one would be around to take care of him.
I would go to bed at night and dream of having a full, warm house filled with laughter and food and hugs. But that’s never happened for me. And the older I get, the more I think it might not.
That’s sad . . . for me and for Ethan.
“Sometimes,” I say, answering Val’s question. I’m afraid to be totally honest. I’m afraid my voice will break. “I’ve checked into adoption a few times, and it’s too expensive.”
She pulls the chips back to her lap and eats one, studying me all the while.
“What about you?” I ask her.
“Someday. One or two. I’m in no hurry.”
“Well, if I’m going to, I need to get on it,” I say. “I don’t want to be too old, and I’d rather not have twenty years between Ethan and his sibling.”