Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
A pang of loneliness smacks my chest. The impact tightens my throat and burns the bridge of my nose. I don’t think about them often. I try not to. Because with every life milestone I hit and every small moment they miss, it’s like losing them all over again.
If they were here, maybe Miles and I would have a different relationship. We’d have something tying us together besides a shared last name.
If they were here, I could call Mom and complain about him like a sister irritated with her brother. She’d give me some piece of great advice and put things in perspective for me.
If they were here, I wouldn’t feel so alone when things get quiet. There wouldn’t be such a heavy pressure to have all the answers. Because even if I messed up, there’d be two people living across town who love me anyway.
I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands and pull myself together.
“Don’t be a crybaby,” I mumble. “There’s nothing cute about being a crybaby.”
I flip the visor down and look at my reflection.
My eyes are a bit puffy and slightly red from swiping at them a moment ago, but my skin is nice and flushed from playing with Tally. And my hair is a little wild and sweaty, but it’s nothing that a quick brush can’t fix.
At least my shorts make my ass look great, and I wore a supportive sports bra tonight.
I fix my hair and add a touch of lip gloss before leaving the parking lot. Because if I have to run this errand, I might as well look great doing it.
I might not be in a place to accept Jory’s flirtation, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.
CHAPTER
TEN
Jory
“Don’t look at me like that,” Gus says from across the table. His brows are pulled together, his face redder than usual. We’ve been at this table working on the same problem for thirty minutes, and we’re no closer to solving it than we were when we sat down. “I hate this.”
I get ya, kid. Math pisses me off, too.
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” I say, loosening my grip on the pencil in my hand. “You’re just mad.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re looking at me like something you said should’ve sunk into my brain by now. But nothing you’re saying is what my teacher said last year. The bells aren’t going off, if you follow me.”
I bite back a sigh. I don’t know where to go from here. Hell, I didn’t know where to start. But I told Deidre I’d do this, and I honestly thought I could. In my head, we’d sit down, pull out the packets his mother sent for him to do, and bond while working on fractions.
That was delusional. No one warned me that math could quite possibly be a relationship ender.
I take a long breath, filling my senses with the smell of garlic and spices. I’m not much of a cook, and dinner might barely be edible, but until we busted out the math packet, tonight had been great. We fried some hamburger together and mixed it with jarred sauce. Popped open some garlic bread from the freezer section of Miller’s and shoved it into the oven. Boiled some pasta, too. We did it all with music playing in the background and our laughter playing in the forefront.
Then I brought out the math homework. What a way to ruin the night.
“Let’s start over again and use different numbers,” I say, standing. I need to put some distance between us—for both our sakes. “You sit here and work on it while I check on our pasta.”
“We’ve started over three times,” Gus says, tossing his pencil in front of him. “It’s not the numbers that are the problem.” He leans forward, staring me in the eyeballs. “The problem is that I don’t understand math, and if we’re being honest, I don’t think you do, either.”
My arms cross over my chest. “I passed sixth-grade math, so I know a little something.”
“I’d like to call Gran and see your report card.”
“Are you calling me a fraud?” I ask, lifting a brow. Typically, his cheekiness is fun, but there’s cockiness to it that prickles me the wrong way.
“Not outright. But your math skills haven’t been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“My math skills aren’t on trial here.” I give him a strained smile and head toward the stove. Don’t fight with a kid. Let it go. “There are a couple of different ways to attack that problem. Pick one and go for it.”
He groans loudly, as if I’m not picking up on the preteen dramatics.
“Simplify eighteen twenty-fourths,” I say, straining the pasta. “Are both numbers divisible by two?”
“I have no idea.”
“Gus.” I pour the pasta into the sauce on the stove and then turn off the burner. We’ve been over this. So. Many. Times. “Come on, man.”