Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“I’ll get a ride back with Monroe,” I said, although I’d likely need to go back earlier than her to do Rogue’s stupid chores. I’d beg her to go early if I had to.
“Well, the offer’s there.” Of course it was because he wasn’t bothered by sharing a car with me for two hours.
“Thanks.” I shouldered my backpack, slipped out of the truck, and went inside the house.
The air inside was humid and close. If I had to guess, Mom was trying to save money on the electric bill and keep the air off. “Mom? Dad?”
“In the kitchen, sweetheart.”
I passed through the small living room and into the kitchen. Mom stood at the stove, her full focus on the pot she was stirring. She glanced over her shoulder when the floorboards creaked beneath me, her pale features breaking into a half smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She moved away from the stove and pulled me into a hug. She felt thin, like less of a person in my arms.
I didn’t comment on her weight. Knowing Mom, she’d take it as a compliment. If there was one thing she always wanted to be, it was skinny. No matter if it wasn’t healthy.
She asked me about school and gave me the latest gossip from her church group—evidently, the deacon’s wife was having an affair with one of the members… She went on like everything was normal. I guessed it was her way of coping.
She grabbed a jar from her spice rack and sprinkled something green into the boiling pot. “Want some lunch?”
“Sure.” I eyed the stove.
Dad was forever telling her that soup was not a meal. If he was eating it, I worried either they were that poor, or he was struggling with actual food.
She went to the fridge, giving me a once-over as she passed. “You look great. Did you go on a diet? Or start working out?”
Nope, just the same poverty-driven starvation she’d evidently been doing. The only time I ate anything substantial these days was at work. Or when Wolf bought me breakfast.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said, bumping the fridge closed with her hip. “How good you’d look if you dropped ten pounds…”
I loved my mom. She was kind and wanted the best for me. Sadly, that tended to be what would have been best for her at my age. My mom was beautiful. I hadn’t inherited her blond hair or her naturally athletic, pageant-winning physique. Instead, I had gotten my grandma’s big boobs, hips, and ass. Mom meant well, but she’d passed down all the insecurities she would have had if she had my body. Insecurities that had certainly factored into mine and Wolf’s relationship over the years. In her eyes, Wolf Brookes was a prize, a gift that I—even with my extra ten pounds—had been bestowed.
But I didn’t have time to dredge up the past or my complicated relationship with my mother. I had to focus on actual, real-world problems. I fished the two hundred and fifty bucks from my pocket. “I got some extra tips this week.” The lie fell from my lips too easily. “This should cover Dad’s meds.”
Mom placed the wooden spoon on the counter, her gaze dropping to the cash in my hand. “Sweetheart, we don’t need your money.” If only she knew how untrue that was, but I never wanted her to. Better she think a crazy lady on a spin bike had paid their mortgage. She pushed my hand back toward me. “A child shouldn’t have to provide for a parent. I know you’re barely scraping by with books and rent and things.”
“I work—”
“No.” She lifted a stern brow, then turned back to the stove. “We already feel horrible that we couldn’t help you with college. Your father will find work soon, you’ll see.”
Dad wasn’t getting work. At least none that would last more than a week or two before his symptoms had him either calling in sick or throwing up on the clock.
“Where is Dad?” I asked.
“Back porch. Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
I slipped through the screen door and found Dad in the worn rattan chair he’d saved from the dump. I still wasn’t convinced it didn’t have fleas living in the cushions.
“Hey, honey.” His brows pulled together over his gaunt face. “You look skinny.” Now, when my dad said it, it wasn’t a compliment. It was a concern.
“Look who’s talking.” I leaned against the siding of the house. “Besides, Mom already said I look great.”
He’d know exactly what I meant by that. He shook his head, mumbling something under his breath.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Fine. Got new pills for my stomach ulcer. I should be right as rain soon.” My parents and their eternal optimism. Or maybe it was just denial.