Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “That’s really hard.”
“My mom called me. I haven’t spoken to Nana in a while. Haven’t seen her in years. She’s been sick, or at least that’s what Mom said anyway.”
“You’re a good friend to be here for Ash. It can’t be easy.”
I laugh bitterly. “No, that’s the messed-up part. I’m not even upset she’s dead. Honestly, it’s an enormous relief. I hated my nana. That’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”
He’s quiet for a second. I’ve said too much. I’m sure he thinks I’m a monster now, since everyone’s supposed to love their grandparents, but everyone doesn’t know my nana.
She was awful. No, not awful, that doesn’t convey the deep, utter loathing I feel for this woman.
She was a sick bitch.
“Depends,” he says, coming up beside me. He shrugs off his jacket and puts it over my shoulders. It smells like him, bright and spicy, with a hint of whiskey. He sips his drink, staring at the ocean. I finish my wine. “I hated my father.”
I smile slightly. “This is fun. We should confess some more awful stuff. Kill anyone?”
“Not recently,” he says.
I cough, clearing my throat. “Right, uh, I forgot. Mafia.”
“That’s Italian.” He glances at me. “I’m sorry you had a complicated relationship with your nana. Family isn’t always kind.”
“No, they’re really not.” Suddenly, a compulsion comes over me, and I can’t stop myself from talking. “This morning, after my mom called, I didn’t cry. But I did remember that I used to have this dream. I guess I still have it. Back when I was little, Nana and I would make donuts together. She was amazing at it. Her donuts always came out perfect, fluffy, delicious, while mine were always lopsided, too sweet, too flat, always wrong. But even though I sucked, and she made sure I knew I was absolutely awful at baking, for a long time I wanted to open a donut shop using her recipes. I wanted to prove that I could do something right. I practiced on my own for years after I moved out. Got pretty good, honestly. But she never had one. She’ll never know.” I stop myself, looking down at my bare feet, covered in sand. What’s the point of feeling this way? Nana’s dead now. I can’t bring her back and prove that I’m not worthless. That I can be something.
I want to tell him more. Make him understand what that woman did to me, what she’s still doing to me. Nana’s voice has been in my head ever since I was a little girl, telling me truths about myself, truths which are all her opinions, and none of them good. Her truths still haunt me, still linger in my dreams, still come back to jam their thumbs into my eyes anytime I try to do something bigger and better for myself.
“Why don’t you?” he asks.
I snort, nudging against him. “Do you know how much money waitresses make?”
“Money can’t be holding you back.” He tilts his head, looking at me with that focus again. That attention. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating. I love when he looks at me, but it’s too much. I have to stare at the water, trying to avoid those handsome eyes of his. “I’m sure Ash would help.”
“That’s the whole problem. If I did it, I would want to do it on my own. Well, maybe with Jamila. We’ve talked about giving it a shot a few times.”
His arm wraps around my shoulders as I shiver from the cold. “Then do it,” he says. “I’ve been opening and closing businesses for years now, trying to compete with my brothers, and the one thing I’ve learned is you have to try. Failing is okay, so long as you try.”
“Oh, gee, thanks, you should start a self-help YouTube channel.”
“I’d make a terrible influencer. Much too violent. Not family-friendly.”
I laugh, even though it’s not funny, and it’s not a joke. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”
“You should. Fuck anyone that thinks you can’t.”
“Like my nana?”
“Fuck your dead nana.”
I laugh, shocked he said that. He turns me to face him, staring down into my face. “Are you serious right now?” I ask. “You’re not supposed to say something like that. I mean, I hated her, but I’m still mourning.”
“I’m very serious. Fuck your dead nana. If she made you feel like you can’t do something, I hope she rots.”
With that beautiful sentiment, he leans down and kisses me.
Chapter 3
Keely
I should pull away.
I mean, he did just tell me that my freshly dead grandmother should rot.
Except I agree, and he said it for a weirdly nice reason, and his lips feel amazing on my lips. Also, I’ve had a decent amount of wine, which means I’m not making top-notch decisions.
Only the wine is an excuse. As I kiss him back, pushing myself closer to his body, I know I’d make out with him stone-cold sober.