Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Babies. Please. Before I die.”
“You had better not! You better live to be two hundred.”
She cackles. “Don’t worry. I’ve been looking into cryogenic options. I could always freeze myself while you put your ovaries on ice.”
“Ha. I’m twenty-five, Granny.”
“And men can go forever,” she finishes, then sniffs. “See that you don’t.”
“We do want kids,” I assure her, looping my arm around her shoulders and hugging her hard. “Just when all our other plans are done. Our time together, growing as a couple and falling more and more in love, is important to me.” I glance over at Dad working the barbeque, and by working, I mean trying to control the flames that I knew would be inevitable. Mom comes scurrying out, a giant pitcher of water in hand so he can douse the whole thing. “I want to be a mom and dad just like my parents. Just like you and Grandpa were for Dad.”
“Speaking of which, I had best go over and take over those grilling duties, or we’re going to be eating lumps of coal for Christmas. I mean this picnic.”
Granny scurries over, so nimble lately that she barely uses her cane at all. I don’t know if I want to wait five years for kids, but I don’t want to tell her that, or she’ll freaking install spy equipment at our house to try and get daily reports on the state of my womb.
Twenty minutes later, we’re all perched on the big blanket, our plates heaped with incredibly blackened chicken and a salad of every kind. Mom says picnics should be all about the food, and by food, she means all about the salads and desserts. She’s made potato salad, pasta salad, pink salad, orange salad, chef salad, and broccoli salad. For dessert, she’s made three kinds of pies and four types of squares.
Booty Sue even has her own bowl with some chicken pulled off the bones and the charred skin removed. She’s keeping a close eye on the robot dog, which is now sitting immobile on the deck.
War is pretty quiet, the delicious middle in the Amalphia and Granny sandwich. I know it’s because he’s overwhelmed when he comes here, and not in a bad way. He and his parents might be doing better—they’ve been going to therapy for the past six months to work things out—but they don’t do things like this. Even when they go to their cabin, it’s not like this. I don’t know if they’ll ever really love me, but at least they’re not hostile anymore. They’re actually growing more interested in War’s robotics instead of violently opposing all that he’s trying to do.
War tears into a drum and rams potato salad into his mouth. It’s his favorite, and his plate is mostly chicken with two massive mountains of potato salad. He’ll go back for seconds and thirds, eating like it’s Christmas.
Honestly, with the warm sun on our faces and all these good things happening to us, it feels just like it. I love being surrounded by family, and I love being able to share this with War. These are the memories I’ll treasure forever. It’s pretty wild that it all started with heartbreak and thuggery.
“Mmm. Wow. This is amazing,” War says between bites, which makes my parents and Granny glow.
We looked at the pond as soon as we got here, and War complimented Mom on how healthy the goldfish were looking. She’s been beaming ever since.
He and my dad talked shop about business and robots, and Dad’s been beaming ever since.
Just being here with us has Granny beaming since we picked her up and drove her over.
I’m not sure Booty Sue can beam, but maybe that’s what her wide eyes are trying to accomplish. Doggy love telegraphed.
I know I’ve been beaming for days just from thinking about coming out here.
War is currently looking at me, and yup, he’s beaming too.
We’re all glowing, happy, and lit up, a bunch of beaming beamers back here. The whole backyard is filled with love. I have so many hopes and dreams, but the biggest one, the one that encompasses it all, is that I hope this old patchwork blanket sees many more picnics just like these.
THE END.