Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“My friend, Parker, says the same thing.” He settles onto the lounge beside me with a laugh. “I think he said IPAs taste like cat piss, not grass, but…not far off.
“Parker as in Leo Parker, former star forward for Carolina?” When he nods, I shake my head, the surrealness of my new life hitting me all over again. “Wow. I wonder if it’s ever going to feel normal that you’re friends with people I used to watch on television.” I take a pull of the cold beer, enjoying the soothing rush of the bubbles down my throat.
“Used to?” he asks, playing up his irritation as he adds, “I hope you’re still planning on watching, woman. The season hasn’t even started. We can’t afford to start losing fans already.”
I roll my head his way with a smile. “I’ve been watching hockey since I was in diapers. No way I’m jumping ship now.” I shrug a teasing shoulder, “I mean, unless you guys suck, then…”
Grammercy makes an outraged sound and pokes my foot with his before insisting, “Arrête donc ça, ma belle, tu vas nous mettre le mauvais œil dessus.”
I laugh and pretend that hearing him speak French doesn’t make me tingle in places way more scandalous than my lips. “No fair, my French is terrible,” I say, my voice breathier than it was before. “I heard ‘stop’ and ‘bad’ in there, but Papa didn’t speak Cajun much. Not with anyone but his bar buddies, anyway. And I wasn’t allowed to hang out there.”
“That’s a shame,” Grammercy says. “We gotta keep our culture alive. Cajun people are a dying breed. I always promised my mama I’d talk bayou to my babies when they were little, make sure they picked it up young.” He motions my way with his beer. “I basically said, ‘don’t jinx us.’ Don’t give us the evil eye.”
I hum beneath my breath. “That fits, especially with the Voodoo team name. The mascot is perfect, by the way. A creepy little voodoo doll with a hockey stick is…chef’s kiss. I’ll be first in line to buy a T-shirt. People are going to love it.”
He grins. “I think so, too. A couple of my mama’s friends were offended. Said it wasn’t respectful of the religion, but my mama’s half-Haitian and she loves it. She thinks it celebrates the culture in a good way.”
My brows lift. “Yeah? I didn’t know that about your mom. That’s so cool. Did she come here from Haiti when you were little, or—”
“No, her mom did. When she was a little girl. But Grammy clung tight to her culture. She had dreams of going home again, but…it didn’t work out. She and my grandaddy fell on hard times, lost their land, and eventually moved to Canada. Last we heard, they were in Michigan somewhere, not far from Detroit, but…” He shrugs. “We’re not sure where. When my mama refused to go with them, they decided they weren’t interested in staying in touch.”
I wince. “I’m sorry, but I get it. I really do. I have no idea where my real parents are.”
“I’m sorry, too, but probably for the best,” he says. “Like with my dad. If a parent can look at a sweet baby who needs their love and protection, and just walk away…” His lip curls. “Well, they didn’t deserve the gift they were given.”
“Agreed. And my foster parents were wonderful. I wish I knew more about my biological parents for health reasons, so I might know more about where Mimi’s condition came from and any other DNA minefields waiting in the wings. But otherwise? You’re right. I’m better off without them.”
“Speaking of parents who hit the road,” he says in a more cautious voice, “can I ask you something a little…personal?”
“We got married today, Grammercy,” I say, the words sending a thrill through me, despite the strange circumstances. “Even a fake marriage entitles a person to a few personal questions. So yeah, fire away.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that,” His lips quirk up, but a smile doesn’t form, and his tone is serious as he asks, “Where’s Mimi’s dad? Why isn’t he helping with any of this? The cost of raising a child, parenting, healthcare?”
The question is gentle, but direct, a fact I appreciate.
I like direct. It saves time and makes me feel more respected than people who dance around the fact that my baby daddy bailed, like it’s something I should be ashamed of.
“Um, well…” I sigh. “The short answer is he’s in grad school in Canada, probably explaining Proust to undergrads and pretending his sperm never went rogue.”
Grammercy’s eyebrows shoot up with a judgmental grunt. I can’t help but enjoy a little, even though I let go of my anger at my ex a long time ago. “And the long answer?”
I take another sip of my beer, rolling the bottle between my palms as I murmur, “Johnny Castellane. Editor of the school newspaper, crazy good artist, Columbia-bound on a full ride. Also charming, fun, and possessed of the most persuasive ‘just the tip’ argument in teen history.”