Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
She never did anything else. Resenting her simply became a habit.
Her sister and her mother, though…they earned more of that resentment. But even the sister, hell—the last time anything came up was in high school. I avoided her, but now and then had to defend myself against suggestions that I was cheating on my tests, or screwing around on my girlfriends, or bringing in weed to sell. And there was no doubt in my mind who started that shit, every time. Because that’s always the Walker refrain: the Knowles family has no morals or ethics and we’ll fuck over anyone for a dime.
Even if the sister started those rumors, however, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn her mother prodded her into it. Angela Walker has never stopped waging her campaign against everything my family has ever touched. That woman, she’s a real piece of work.
But my dad is, too. So I can feel some sympathy for both those girls, growing up around that shit. Especially for Abbie, now that I’ve seen more of who she is.
What it all boils down to, though, is that I’ve assumed she’d be like her sister and mother, but I don’t actually know much about Abbie herself. Except paleontology makes her eyes light up. And she’ll take care of someone even if she hates them.
Maybe I can work on that hating part. Because her feelings toward me are likely based on the same old grudges and the assumption that I’m just like my father.
I’m not.
Hopefully I’ll get started on improving her opinion by pulling my own weight—and filling her stomach. “I’ve got pancakes ready if you want some.”
She seems torn. It’s not easy to accept anything from me. I get it. I had the same inner debate while she was keeping me upright the other night.
Finally she nods and uncurls from her chair. “Thanks.”
The tension underlying the quiet in the cabin seems to ease, as if that single word forms a truce between us. An uneasy truce, but a truce nonetheless. I lay out the plates and silverware. She grabs real maple syrup from the cupboard, followed by peanut butter.
Again, the same preferences. “Crunchy peanut butter. You’re a woman after my heart.”
“Maybe.” Pointedly she picks up a table knife.
I grin and refill her coffee, then notice Hot Biscuit Slim at my feet, gazing up at us pitifully. “I’m guessing he can’t have pancakes.”
“Not unless he makes them himself.”
As she says it, a not-quite-a-smile tugs at her mouth. There’s a joke there I’m not getting. Probably something about his name. I still can’t remember where it’s from. But I put it away for later.
I’m too hungry to talk much. She’s quiet, too, though she’s not shoveling it in like I am. Instead she’s neat about it. I whack off a wedge of pancake with the tines of my fork, while she cuts little triangular bites with her table knife. It’s fascinating to watch. I can almost hear the admonishment behind that kind of eating. Back in the day, my grandmother would have rapped my knuckles if I didn’t mind my manners and cut my food the same way, but those lessons didn’t stick past childhood. Watching Abbie, I’d bet anything her mother drilled that into her from a very young age…and never let up.
But what’s really fucking wild is that this dainty eater once took a bite of my hand. And would have brained me with a poker if I’d made one wrong move that first night.
I’m guessing she’s got a polite, serene layer that was developed over a long time, and that’s what most people see. I haven’t seen much of it. Instead, I’ve seen the fire that burns through that polite layer.
If true, I’m not sorry that she hasn’t been polite and serene. I like the fire.
When the chasm in my stomach has a heap of pancakes at the bottom, I slow down and search for something that’ll help me get to know her—and for her to know me. I have to tread carefully. We have one point in common for sure. Well, two points. But no way in fuck will I bring up my mom and her dad running off and dying together. So we have one point in common that’s a viable direction.
“You’ve been working for Harris how long?”
“Four years.” That seems like it’ll be it. Then she apparently decides to make an effort, too. Those good manners kicking in. “You’ve been friends since high school?”
“Elementary. He lived just a block over from us.” And this is already veering too damn close to the point I won’t mention—how Harris was there after my mom died. How I was always over at his place to avoid my dad. Abbie seems to recognize the danger, too. She’s cutting a triangle smaller and smaller. “Is he a good boss?”