Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Where’s the boyfriend, Eves?” I ask, peering over Mom’s shoulder into a pot of noodles.
“Like I’m going to bring him here. We just started dating.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom asks. “Why wouldn’t you bring him here?”
“Oh, let’s see. How far back should we go?” Evie sighs with the drama only the youngest child can provide. “Tony Rosedale. Brock Lon. Kyle Stannus. Then there was Xander Willoughby.” She looks at me over her shoulder, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Remember what you did to him?”
I lift a brow. “Remember what he did to you?”
“I remember he never talked to me again. That’s what I remember.”
“Who are we talking about?” Elodie asks, giving me a quick hug.
“Your siblings are discussing why Evie won’t bring her new boyfriend home,” Mom says.
Elodie fights a grin. She understands. Unbeknownst to Mom or Evie, Elodie was the one who told me that Tony fucking Rosedale grabbed my sister by the neck and shoved her against a wall. She didn’t rat out Brock or Kyle, and I can’t remember how I discovered Xander’s misdeeds. But word gets around in a small town, and my older sister made sure certain things got back to me.
“So how far along are we in the list?” Elodie asks. “Have we hit David Darrow yet?”
“Thank you,” Evie says, grateful to have support. “I’m glad that someone understands what a cockblocker Drake is.”
“Evie Mae!” Mom gasps. “What did you just say?”
“Don’t you have to have a cock to block?” I ask, teasing my sister. “Or are you using your boyfriend’s cock as the proverbial cock in this equation?”
Mom groans, looking at me and pointing toward the living room.
“Sorry, Mom,” I say cheekily. “I’m just trying to understand what’s happening.”
“Get out of here and go say hi to your father,” she says.
Evie sticks her tongue out at me as I walk away.
I make my way toward the sound of a gunfight over a card game, taking my phone from my pocket. I glance at the screen, wondering if Mario texted me back. A grin splits my cheeks when I spot Gianna’s name on the top of my alerts.
Sorry, Mario. You’re going to have to wait for a reply.
Gianna: Have you checked your socials? O M G
I lean my shoulder against the wall and type out my response.
Me: No. Why?
Gianna: Francine called me this morning and told me to look. I’ve gotten fifteen THOUSAND new followers since Thursday, and I’m pretty sure I can never use the direct message feature again. Do you know how many dick pics I’ve received over the past few days? Do girls send you pics of their boobs?
Laughing, I shake my head. Only Gianna would ask that.
Me: On occasion. They’re never solicited.
Gianna: Well, you tell those hoes that you have a girlfriend now and the only boobs you’re going to be seeing for the next six weeks are mine. I mean, theoretically. You don’t seem like you want to see them.
Me: You don’t appreciate that I wanted to focus on your mind first?
Gianna: I did have a great time at dinner. The drop-off afterward? Not so much. But you did pick out the perfect first date spot. I keep thinking about those chicken skewers.
Me: Any requests for our second date?
Gianna: Is sex off the table? If so, boo. But I also love your taste in restaurants, and feeding me is never the wrong answer. But inside. Eating and fighting bugs on picnics is not my idea of a good time.
An idea crosses my mind, and I can’t type fast enough.
Me: Do you have plans for Friday night?
Gianna: Is this your way of asking me out on a second date?
Me: I’ll pick you up at six. Wear closed-toe shoes, jeans, and a cotton top.
Gianna: That does not sound sexy at all. I’m guessing sex is out of the question.
Me: You could wear a trash bag and be sexy.
Gianna: Charmer.
She’s going to want more details, and I’m not going to give them to her. Anticipation is half the battle. So I slide the phone back in my pocket and round the corner into the living room. The gunfight has stopped, and the cowboys appear to have swapped the saloon for a brothel. Dad is stretched out in his recliner, the remote in his hand—dead-ass asleep. His breaths sound like he’s blowing raspberries.
“Is he asleep?” Elodie whispers from behind me.
“Yeah.”
“Mom is on the phone with Aunt Vivi. Wanna take a walk?”
I nod. “Sure.”
We step out the back door into the yard where we rode bikes, built forts, and chased lightning bugs as kids. The big oak tree used to hold a tire swing that Evie fell off and broke her front tooth. Our playset is long gone, as is the sandbox, but it still feels so much like home.
The older I get, the more this shit matters. I have championship rings, my highlights are played on sports channels to this day, and I’ve been more places and done more things than people usually do in a lifetime. But as that slows down and I take a moment to take stock of what I have, the more I realize that the most I ever had was here. In this house.