Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 118136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
This time, we were on our own.
“Are you going to let it ring for eternity?” Mom looked up from watching Fried Green Tomatoes.
The shit I endured in the name of my love for her was on another level. I was ninety-nine percent sure if she hadn’t been so sick, I’d have bathed in hot lava before I’d watch an angsty chick flick.
“That’s the plan.” I sent the phone call to voicemail for the fifth time.
Mom frowned. “Texas area code? Who do you know in Texas?”
“Probably a college thingy.” I kissed her forehead, motioning to the screen. “Look, you’re missing your favorite part, where he tells her he’s not really there for the barbecue, but because he thinks she’s a shithead.”
“You want to go to an out-of-state college?” she persisted, eyeing me carefully. “Because you know you can, right?”
“Mom, drop it.”
“Knight,” she warned.
I rolled my eyes and stood up, advancing to my room. She was in a probing mood, and I wasn’t in the business of denying my mother anything, especially when she’d spent the past week throwing up mucus, retching all night. Dad had put pillows all around their bathroom floor, and they sat there all night, every night. I heard them talk and laugh and whisper. Whenever she felt good enough, anyway.
In the mornings, when her massage therapist arrived, Dad would disappear to one of the spare rooms downstairs, his eyes bloodshot. Earlier, I’d followed him into his study silently. I’d found him bracing his desk from the other side, his back quivering as sobs rippled through his body. My dad. The mighty Dean Cole. Crying.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it was another stepping stone in our demise as a family.
The Cole men didn’t cry.
Not when they lost their mothers. Their wives. The quiet, gorgeous loves of their lives.
Things were changing, and I didn’t know how to stop them. Luna was living elsewhere, and no longer mine. She was speaking. She had friends. Boyfriends. Mom was dying. Really dying. Dad was consumed by it. He could barely look at Levy and me. Whether he felt guilty or just generally pissed was beside the issue.
“Don’t run away from the conversation.” Mom coughed.
The doorbell rang. I gestured in its general direction.
“That would be Poppy,” I said.
It was the first time I’d been glad she’d stopped by.
“You guys are going strong.” Mom’s face melted instantly.
She wanted me to be happy. To be in love. I was one of these things, for sure. But happiness wasn’t a part of the package deal.
“’Suppose.”
“She seems very smitten with you.”
That word again.
“Are you happy with her?” Mom’s eyes clung to my face, begging for crumbs of truth.
“Sure.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“I’ve had plenty of girlfriends.”
“No one serious.”
“I’m not a serious guy.”
“You’re the most serious guy I know, Knight Jameson Cole.”
My phone rang again. Texas. Motherfucker. I killed the call, then sent Dixie a string of middle-finger emojis before tucking the device into my back pocket.
“Better answer the door before Poppy gives me the third degree.” I smiled apologetically.
I took Poppy to the front porch. I wasn’t in the mood for sitting in my room. Maybe I subconsciously wanted Luna to see us, but she had drawn her curtains and made sure I couldn’t peek into her room. Not that I was looking.
Okay, I was looking. Sue me.
God, why her? Why couldn’t I fall in love with the nice English chick who actually wore dresses and talked all the time?
Poppy and I sat on white rocking chairs overlooking the cul-de-sac, me drinking Gatorade to nurse hangover number five hundred for the week, her cradling a glass of orange juice.
“How’s your mum feeling?” she asked, staring at the yellow liquid swimming in her glass.
She’d brought over homemade cookies, which my mother gushed over and took a bite of, even though her appetite was shitty nowadays. Poppy, for all intents and purposes, was perfect. Only problem was, she wasn’t perfect for me.
I shrugged, still staring at the street.
The street where I’d played with Luna.
Where I’d kissed her on the steps of her house.
Where I’d tugged at her braids.
Thrown water bombs at her.
Run around, laughing, when she’d thrown water bombs at me.
Where we’d drawn with chalk on the cobblestones, bounced on hippity hop, and fell asleep on her front lawn, our heads touching, as we’d waited for the fireworks to explode every Fourth of July.
Then I thought about how I’d treated her. Taunted her. Kissed her. Belittled her.
I couldn’t stop myself from doing any of those things, even when I wanted to. Desperately. The more my mother weakened, the more I drank. The more I drank, the more mean Knight came out. It was a vicious cycle. I knew there was only so much Luna would suffer before she flipped on my ass. She was a proud girl.