Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“And you’ll fall asleep halfway through it anyway,” August says to me with a small smile.
I blink, a punch of surprise hitting me. “I don’t fall asleep.”
“Yes, you do.” This from everyone. In unison.
“It’s this couch,” I protest. “It’s always been too comfortable.”
No one seems convinced.
“Why don’t you pick, August?” I counter.
Leaning back in the chair, he sets his hands on his flat stomach and appears to think about it. The lamps are on low, and the only other light source comes from the flickering glare of the TV. Everything is muted and soft around the edges. Except for August. Finely delineated and sharp against the soft curved back of the chair, the colors of him—espresso dark hair against cognac leather, crisp white T-shirt pulled tight against golden-brown arms—is more vivid than anything else.
I’ve often wondered why it is some people shine and others don’t. But perhaps it’s the ones doing the looking that make it so. Perhaps, I only see August’s shine because I’ve been trying my whole life to ignore it.
Oblivious of my turmoil, August squeezes the back of his neck and squints into the distance. “How about,” he finally says, “The Fellowship of the Ring?”
At March’s groan, August grins but then glances my way. “We watched it last time we were all together.”
That he remembers is a shock. August barely paid attention to the movie at the time and spent most of it looking at his phone, “studying plays” he’d claimed. Regardless, his choice is accepted. Or rather, March shrugs with indifference, June immediately cues it up, as May does a Legolas dance, which mainly consists of wiggling in her seat and singing “Legolas” over and over.
June spreads a throw over our laps. My fingers curl into the caramel-colored chenille. The blanket is worn, buttery soft, and likely as old as I am. Everything in this room has a patina of age and care. Framed family photos and well-loved books grace the shelves. The papier-mâché carnival mask January made in elementary school hangs on the wall, battered but miraculously still whole. There is history here. Maybe that’s why we revert to children in this room, in this house: because we can. Here, in these walls, with these people, we’re safe and loved. I want that feeling in my life. More than I’ve realized.
“And all was right with the world again,” I say as the movie starts.
August’s grin is quick but wide. “If you fall asleep, Penelope, I’ll make sure these yahoos don’t mess with you.”
Sweet but . . . “I’m not going to fall asleep.”
I fall asleep.
I come to this unfortunate conclusion when a gentle touch on my shoulder eases through warm layers of slumber.
“Pen.” Another touch. “Penelope.”
That voice. I know that voice. It’s like Pops’s favorite bourbon: rich, smooth, a hint of bite. I jump fully awake with a gasp and nearly knock heads with August, who’s leaning over me.
He lurches back just in time with an apologetic sound. “Jesus. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Something almost smug glints in his eyes. “But you weren’t waking up.”
Stiff with sleep, I fumble my way into sitting, surreptitiously wiping at my face to make sure I haven’t drooled. “No, no. It’s okay. I was just surprised because I . . .” The words trail off.
August crouches beside me, his expression perfectly composed. The truth of the situation hangs between us, and I know he’s laughing on the inside.
“I did not fall asleep,” I tell him.
“Uh-huh.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“And snoring.”
Horror pricks my skin. “I do not snore!”
A tiny dimple forms near the left corner of his mouth. “Fine, we’ll call it a snuffle.”
I glare.
His smile blooms until he’s showing his teeth. His perfect, toothpaste commercial–worthy teeth. “An adorable little snuffle. Like a chipmunk.”
My brow rises.
He frowns but amusement lingers in his eyes. “Aw, come on. Not one little smile at that?”
“After you’ve likened me to a chipmunk? I’d rather not risk further tooth-related comments.”
August winces and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about the teeth thing earlier. That was . . . ah—”
“Traumatizing?” No, I will not smile. Not ever again in front of him.
But he does. It’s wry with a self-deprecating tilt. “Yeah. It was definitely that.”
A small huff of laughter escapes despite my best effort. “I meant for me.”
A look of regret pinches his features. “Shit, Penelope. I didn’t mean to traumatize you.”
“I may never smile again.” But I feel it tugging on the edges of my lips.
He sees it. Of course he does. I don’t think anything escapes August. His eyes narrow, his own lips quirking. “You so want to, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” God, that voice, all deep, teasing, coaxing. “Come on, Penelope. Smile for me.”
I bite my lip, try to hold it in. It’s nearly impossible. What with August grinning at me that way.