Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Hard not to when someone loaded a ‘Don’t Forget to Call Your Mother’ playlist on my phone.”
She chuckles, and the clenching in my stomach eases a bit at the familiar sound. “And yet here I am calling you.”
“I was too busy listening to ancient Complaint Rock.”
“Horrible child!”
I snicker then turn on my windshield wipers. What was once a light mist has gone full-on rain. Great. “What’s up?”
“What’s that noise?” Mom says over me.
“Mother Nature’s wrath. It’s raining like hellfire now.”
“Maybe you should get off the road.”
“I’m in the middle of nowhere. I’m not getting off until I’m there.”
“Why on earth are you in the middle of nowhere? The house is in the suburbs.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to my map app. I’ve been sent a weird-ass circuitous route to avoid an accident backup.”
Mom’s voice grows tight. “Now I’ll worry about you until you’re there.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?” By the quiet concern in her voice, I know she’s not asking about my driving anymore.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “I’m fine, Mom. There’s nothing more to talk about.”
We’d said all there was to say without totally devolving into a full-on fight. And I’m not eager to continue.
The windshield wipers squeak-squawk as tension stretches between us. But then she sighs in resignation.
“At least tell me you’re close.”
I glance at the little map on my car’s screen. I might not have my own place at the moment, but thanks to my mom, I’ve had a nice car to drive while visiting her in Boston for the week before my final semester of college begins. I am not even a little ashamed. It’s keeping me safe and dry right now. “About five minutes out. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing.” Mom sounds way too casual.
“Uh-huh.”
“I was just wondering if you saw the news about Luck.”
That clenching in my stomach? It returns full force. I glare into the dark blur of the night. “Luck?”
Mom’s not fooled for an instant. She’s my mom, after all. “Little Augie Luck?”
He’s not so little now. And he’s never been “Augie” to me.
Sweat-slicked skin, ripped muscles framed by that ridiculous purple faux fur coat. Are you not entertained?
Jackass.
My fingers flex on the wheel. When had they grown so sweaty? Ick. “No, I haven’t seen the news.”
There’s a beat in which Mom absorbs my lie and lets it pass.
I shoot a defiant glare in the direction of the phone. I do not need to talk about August Jackass Luck and his increasing list of frankly baffling tom-fuckery moves. It’s hard enough to get away from it in normal life. And given where I’m headed? My mother bringing up “Augie” is just too much.
“I only ask because—”
“Mom, I’m driving in a rainstorm on some spooky haunted house lane. The last thing I want to talk about is August. The guy gets enough attention as it is. I don’t care enough to know, honestly, and—”
“Penelope.”
Just that. In that tone. My mother and I may be friends but she’s still my mother. Sassing is not allowed. Evasion, on the other hand?
“Where’s your compassion?” she asks in that famous dramatic, hand-wringing fashion of hers that has theater attendees at the edge of their seats. As for me? I’m immune to it; she is my mother, after all.
Scoffing, I flick on my turn signal and make a right. “Ma, you’ve got to be kidding. August Luck has the world in the palm of his hand.”
“He’s falling apart, Pen.”
My mind’s eye sees that perfectly formed chest glistening under hot lights, tight abs moving in exertion. Dark hair falling over wild silver eyes, diamond bright smile. Disgrace looks good on August.
Frowning, I push the image away. And stay there, damn it.
“He’ll be fine.” Will he? Something is definitely wrong there. He’s only two games into his rookie season and is acting like an attention seeking fool. Does it matter? I’ve never been involved in his life, never will be. “He always is.”
“That’s my point. This isn’t like the boy.” (I scoff here at the term “boy.”) “He’s the levelheaded one. When he was little, he used to separate his Froot Loops by color.”
No, I will not smile. Luck is charming enough as it is without adding onto it.
“He saves the instructions to everything, did you know? Who does that?”
“Total rebels.”
“Smart-ass.”
Luckily, she can’t see me rolling my eyes. “Look, Mom. This August retrospective has been great and all, but maybe you should call him if you’re so worried.”
“Ooh, I knew you were still mad. You’re being smarmy.”
How well she knows me.
“I just don’t understand why we have to talk about him.”
Yes, she knows me well, and yet she’s never picked up that I shy away from August as a topic of discussion. Even now, she digs in.
“It’s important—” She pauses when I make a contrary noise. Then speaks louder. “You should empathize with him because—”