Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“We’re going to look back on this and laugh,” I squeal. “We’re not sleeping together.”
“Can we shower?” I retort.
Trace’s laughter fills the room, and I feel a whole container of sugar dump on my head. I cry out, kicking on top of the table. “You’re gonna love me! I swear!”
“Fuck off!” Dallas growls.
But I hear a faint voice pierce the commotion, different from the others. “Krisjen …”
I turn away from Dallas’s onslaught, trying to open my eyes. Dishes tumble to the floor.
“Krisjen?”
I blink, everything going still as everyone stops.
Macon sits at the head of the table as Army leans halfway over it, one hand on my arm, the other fisting Dallas’s hair.
Macon stares at the table, the look in his eyes settling like a hole in my stomach.
I release my grip on Dallas’s chest.
“Make me another one?” Macon asks me. He holds the mug with the smoothie, tipping it back and emptying it down his throat as he rises from the table. “And dinner tonight,” he says. “Something different than what’s on that fucking menu. Please.”
He leaves the table and heads for the garage.
“I can get you something from town,” Army calls out to him.
But Macon shakes his head, his voice sounding strained.
“Just her.”
I can’t stop stealing glances out the restaurant window. As if I can see Macon a hundred yards down the dirt road inside of his garage.
I’ve been distracted all day. I borrowed Trace’s truck, took Mars home, and cleaned up the house, while Bateman picked up Paisleigh from my grandparents’. He’d stay with the kids until my mom got home, which I’m grateful for, because I don’t want to go home right away when I take Macon his food tonight. I keep checking the clock, dropping plates, forgetting flatware—because something is wrong, and I can’t see him right now. The door is open, but not even a glimpse.
What was going on last night? Macon loses his temper, but that was …
He crumbled. Collapsed on the bathroom floor, and he stayed in there almost all night.
If it were Trace or Army, I could bully them into spitting it out, but Macon is impossible. He bitches about having to do everything on his own, but I doubt even he believes that he doesn’t have to. Men like him don’t feel like men unless they do it alone.
I shake my head, piling the dishes into the tub, because the busser never showed and neither did Summer. They’re probably together.
Macon’s voice drifts through my head again. Just her, he said. Two little words that made me feel so important. To someone who’s important.
The savory scent of soup fills the kitchen, and I lift the lid on a pot simmering over a burner.
Inhaling deep, I almost shiver at the warmth under my skin. It’s in the high seventies today. Definitely cold enough. For the tropics.
My phone buzzes, and I reach into my apron, grabbing it as I replace the lid.
Bateman.
“Hey, how is everything?” I answer.
“Baby, I have to leave.”
I pause. “Please …”
“She’s late,” he tells me. “I have to go.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“And she hasn’t paid me.”
Jesus Christ. Is this really happening? Again?
“You have to come,” he says, “or I’m calling their father.” Yeah, good luck getting ahold of him.
I rip off my apron. “I’m coming.”
I hang up, seeing Mariette pause mid-pour as she fills a pie shell.
“I’ll be thirty minutes,” I tell her, running out the door. “I’ll be back, okay?”
She expels kind of a strangled, stressed sound, because she offered to be understanding, but we’re busy right now.
“Half an hour!” I shout, pushing through the door.
“I’ll hurry.” I jump in my dad’s car and race out of the Bay. I shouldn’t have taken a job. I should’ve stayed at home with Mars and Paisleigh. I figured Army was right and I needed something to do with my time while they were in school, but it would be nice for them to see a familiar face when they get home. Someone who’s not paid to be there.
I just don’t want to fucking be there. It doesn’t feel like my home anymore.
I cruise down the driveway, screeching to a halt in front of my door, and kill the engine, jumping out. My mother’s car isn’t here. No surprises there. She’s courting a new boyfriend, on the hunt for husband number two. There’s not time for kids, I guess.
Bateman opens the door before I even get there, stress etching lines on his forehead. “I’m really sorry about this, honey,” he says. “It’s not your fault. I know that.”
“Go,” I tell him, walking into the house. “It’s not your fault, either.”
It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. I get it. He’s got things to do.
Nor should he work for free.
He grabs his bag, walking out the door. “They’ve had dinner. No homework over break.”
I nod. “Happy Thanksgiving.” And I help him close the door.