Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
I’m curious to see what her play is. I’m pretty sure I know, but seeing and thinking are too different things.
I point at the door across from mine. “So, this is it, the famous craft room,” I say, pushing open the door to what used to be the guest room.
Molly steps in behind me, her arms crossed. I pivot to look at her and bite back a laugh.
I can practically hear her thoughts as she surveys the mess inside. The twin bed is shoved haphazardly against one wall.
Yeah, no one is buying this, Mom.
If the bed’s location isn’t bad enough, the mattress is leaning slightly off the frame.
She didn’t even bother to make this look believable.
The “sewing machine”—that’s the main reason she needed this room for her crafts after all—sits on a tiny folding table dead center in the middle of the room, like anyone will believe it belongs there.
This is ridiculous.
I love my mom, but she’s gone too far this time.
A pile of fabric in colors ranging from baby pink to blinding neon green is thrown on the floor in a pile.
That must have taken her one minute to set up. And for the final selling point, someone crammed an old rocking chair into the corner of the room right next to a stack of yarn that looks like it might collapse at any moment.
I turn to face Molly because I need to see her reaction to my mother’s treachery.
Molly’s mouth twitches, and I know she’s trying not to laugh. “Wow. This is some craft room.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to hide my grin. “It’s been like this for years.”
“Years?” Molly echoes, clearly amused. “My best guess is it looks like she converted this room this morning.”
“You don’t say.” There is no hiding the sarcasm in my voice. Not that I’m trying.
Molly picks up a piece of fabric before setting it back down. “Right. A total coincidence that the room is packed with so much stuff there’s barely enough space to breathe, let alone sleep.”
Mom is a diabolical genius. That’s for sure.
“Exactly.” I lean against the doorframe. “Completely unrelated to the fact that she wants us to share a room.”
Molly gives me a look. It’s a cross between half amused and half exasperated. “Your mom is a mastermind, isn’t she?”
“She’s something all right.”
“Two words come to mind.” She laughs. “Lovely and funny.”
“Yeah, let’s go with that,” I say with a chuckle. “She’s definitely determined.”
Molly shakes her head, glancing around the room one last time. “Well, I guess that settles it. The guest room’s out of the question.”
“Guess so.” I push off the doorframe. “Come on. Let’s get you settled in my room.”
We step into my old bedroom, and I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen again, awkward and unsure of what to say.
Despite having an active social life in high school, I never brought a girl home. Which makes my mom’s meddling even funnier.
I watch Molly surveying the room for the second time as though she thought the hour outside would change the fact that there still is only one tiny twin bed for us to share.
At least the bed still sits in the corner. That way, we have a wall to lean on so no one falls off the bed when we sleep.
It still looks the same as when I lived here.
Nothing has changed.
Not the navy blue comforter.
Or the hockey posters lining the walls.
This is so embarrassing.
There is literally a signed poster of a player I idolized as a kid.
Can this get any worse?
Why yes, it can.
Trophies and medals still line the shelves.
It’s a shrine to my childhood.
I watch Molly as she takes it all in. She stops at the desk, where a photo of Anna and me sits. We’re both grinning like idiots, holding up a snowman we built in the backyard one winter.
“This is so . . . you.” Molly smirks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She glances at me, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . it feels like stepping into your head. It’s kind of nice.”
“Nice?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “I was going for impressive.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, there is nothing impressive about that.” She points her finger toward the bed, making me laugh.
“Touché.”
Molly walks over to the bed and sits. “This is going to be . . . interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it.” I cross my arms at my chest.
She sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Okay, ground rules. No snoring, no hogging the blankets, and absolutely no crossing the invisible line down the middle of the bed.”
I smirk, tilting my head. “Invisible line, huh? Sounds complicated.”
“It’s not,” she says firmly. “You stay on your side; I stay on mine. Simple. No sex in your parents’ house.”
“You’re no fun.” The thought of being this close to her all night without crossing that line sounds like its own brand of torture.