Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Before opening the door, I slap a hand on his shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze (which I have never done nor ever imagined having the upper hand to do). “Good luck.” I stop short of saying “buddy” because Amos has a locked gun chest in his bedroom. I only have a crossbow because Brynn never wanted guns in the house with a child, despite her father having an armory on the property where she grew up.
“Tia doesn’t know. And if Lola doesn’t say anything, I won’t broach the subject. I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case she mentions it to you,” Amos says with a dismissive headshake while following me upstairs.
I pause midway for a moment. “Thanks. I guess.”
“How was your evening?” Tia asks the second I step into the kitchen, which smells of burnt toast. “Did you get caught in the rain?” She takes her toast to the kitchen table.
“I did,” I say, reaching for the coffeepot.
“I heard you come in a little before ten, so I assumed you spent the evening in wet clothes.”
“I did.” I face her, leaning against the counter while sipping my coffee.
Amos slides around the corner and heads to his bedroom. Coward.
Tia scrutinizes me over her jeweled reading glasses while scraping the butter knife along her toast. “You wouldn’t have to ride your bike everywhere if you’d show that girl a little tough love.”
I pause the mug at my lips. “You mean restrain her and make her ride in a car? We’ve talked about this ad nauseam. It has a high chance of backfiring.”
“It’s ridiculous that she’s okay with riding her bike near streets filled with cars, but she won’t get into a car. Have you explained that to her?”
“No. Because if she refuses to ride a bike or let me ride one, I’m screwed.”
Tia scoffs, removing her readers and letting them dangle from the chain around her neck. “Do you hear yourself? Since when do parents need permission from their children to do things?”
“Do you hear yourself? Did you raise a child who lost a parent in a horrific car accident? Did you raise a child who spent a month in the hospital recovering from near-fatal injuries? Did you raise a child who looked in the mirror and cried when they saw their face because they didn’t think they’d ever be pretty? Did you raise a child who had panic attacks just at the sight of a car in the garage? I need you to stop judging me for how I’m navigating this journey that you have never taken. I know I’m not going to do everything right, but I’m heeding the advice of experts who have experience with childhood trauma. It’s the best I can do. And I believe it’s what Brynn would want me to do for Lola.”
Tia bites into her toast, squinting at me while she slowly chews. This is where she expects me to apologize for challenging her, but I won’t do it today. As grateful as I am for her help with Lola, I won’t sell my soul and bow down to her reign.
“How long?” she asks.
“For what?”
“How long will you ride a bike and let her fears dictate your lives?”
“I don’t know. When she gets into a vehicle, I’ll check my calendar and let you know how long it took.”
“You sold your car. Don’t you think it’s time to buy a new one? At least take that first step. Don’t you find it odd that she’ll let me and Amos drive?”
“Don’t take this too personally, but I don’t think she feels like you’re her whole world.”
Tia frowns.
“And I didn’t sell my car. Diego took it to his place.”
Her expression softens. “Well, it’s good to hear you didn’t completely give up on her recovery.”
“Dad? The toilet won’t stop running,” Lola calls.
I glance at the microwave clock. She’s up earlier than usual for a Saturday. “I love her more than life, so I’ll never give up on her,” I say before leaving Tia (and her high horse) to check out the plumbing situation downstairs.
When I turn the corner into the bathroom at the bottom of the stairs, the toilet is not running or clogged, and there’s no toilet paper in it. “Lola?”
“Psst! In here,” she calls from her room, head poking out the cracked open door.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh!” She presses a finger to her pursed lips.
When I close her bedroom door behind me, she jumps onto her bed, pulling her knees into her chest so that her purple nightshirt covers her whole body.
“I needed water in the middle of the night,” she says before popping her lips several times.
Shit. Here we go.
“So I went upstairs, and Pa was watching TV.” Her lips corkscrew, and she averts her gaze for a few seconds. “Dad.” She presses her hand to her chest like a drama queen. “There were two girls and a guy naked on television, then Pa quickly turned it off. But I know what I saw.”