Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
What is happening to me? What is he doing to me? I barely recognize myself. Almost giggling, practically giddy. He even kissed me goodbye like there was something normal about doing so, and the thing is—it felt normal. It felt right.
Stretching again, I can’t help but remember how good he made me feel last night. He wasn’t forceful; he didn’t demand anything afterward. All he wanted to do was please me. Why? After everything he’s done, after all his cruelty, he can turn around and treat me like I’m more than his favorite punching bag.
And I can believe him. That’s the most confusing part of all. I genuinely believe he means it in the moment. He just wants me to feel good. He practically forces me to, like it matters that much.
The house is quiet. Lying in bed, I listen hard for any sounds telling me Mom or Dad are moving around. He must already be gone for the day—he’s been spending more and more time outside the house lately. Yet another weird little turn of events. I don’t know how to feel about it. There’s something wrong about the relief I feel when I know I don’t have to see him. There has to be. A good daughter, a normal daughter, would want to see her father. Right?
But then he’s not a normal dad. He’s anything but. I know it had to affect him, finding out I left school. I couldn’t lie about it—it was either tell the truth or pretend to go to class. He would have found out eventually.
But he just sort of stared at me, looking resigned. There was no argument, no demands for an explanation. Just…acceptance. It was chilling. I kept waiting for the shoe to drop, but it didn’t. It still hasn’t.
So I guess nobody can blame me for being glad he’s not home as I get out of bed and get in the shower. I almost hate to wash away all traces of last night. I must be sick. Like whatever makes Kellen run so hot and cold has rubbed off on me. One minute I hate him, the next I don’t want to wash away his touch.
By the time I’m back in my room, wrapped in a towel, there’s an unread text on my phone. Emma: Hey, how are you? I was wondering if you would have lunch with me today.
I’m supposed to go to the store today. After all, if I’m not in school, I have to do something with my time. I poke my head out into the hallway and find the door to Mom and Dad’s room open, the bed made. There’s not a sound coming from downstairs. Did she go over there with him this morning? If she’s there, that means they don’t necessarily need me behind the register. Not yet.
But I need a friend. This morning, that feels more important than pulling a shift at the store. It’s more important than worrying about our lack of money, too—one lunch won’t kill anybody. And it’s not like I have to order anything expensive.
This is more about the experience. Spending a little time with a nice person. Emma is definitely nice, and I honestly can’t believe she bothered to reach out. She doesn’t owe me anything—it’s the opposite. I’m the one who should reach out and offer to take her to lunch after her kindness.
My mind is made up by the time I send a reply. Me: That would be great.
That’s it. No going back now. I might actually make a friend. It’s sad that the thought should make me this happy, but here I am, humming as I blow dry my hair, singing softly as I pick out my clothes. So this is what it’s like to feel a little slice of normalcy. I could get used to it.
Though I should know better than to think I’ll have the chance.
And there’s reality, tapping its nails against the back of my skull before pissing on my parade. I believe Emma has nothing but the best intentions. She told me enough about her own experiences to convince me she wants nothing more than to help out somebody in a similar position to the one she was in. She’s paying it forward, like they say, and I’m nothing but grateful.
That doesn’t make us best friends. I have to be realistic, adjust my expectations. I don’t know if I can handle another major disappointment.
But I’m still a little excited, looking forward to a few minutes of happiness and normalcy in the middle of what’s been anything but lately. I think I’m allowed that much.
If she thinks there’s anything off about meeting at a diner close to my house, she doesn’t show it. Her smile is nothing but bright and sunny when she gets out of her car, while I do the same now that she’s parked. It’s a very working-class neighborhood, and this is a very working-class kind of diner. Plenty of late model cars and trucks are parked in the small lot out front, miles away from the flashy cars I used to drive past while looking for a spot at school. I don’t know why I ever thought I belonged there.