Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
A day passes. Then another two. By the third day, I know I’m not going to get a call back. A part of me understands him. Another part wants to lash out, to explain that I was never made welcome after what happened to Mom. That the accusation was written plainly on his and Renn’s faces every time they looked at me, which wasn’t very often. After I dropped out, after I left, they didn’t call. They didn’t text. They didn’t want my company. It is only now, a few years later, that they’re starting to show signs of interest in me. But what if it’s too late?
Dad is ghosting me like I’m an underwhelming Tinder date, I text Renn.
He doesn’t respond. Not even with an LOL.
I think about texting Pippa to ask if she could check on them for me. But I haven’t responded to her messages in so long; it seems like a deeply selfish move.
Throughout all this heartache and turmoil, Dom spins golden stories and makes plans around our upcoming Christmas. About decorated trees, epic ugly sweaters, mistletoe, and an old-school door-to-door carol.
I eat it all up, ready to devote myself to my new instant family.
ELEVEN
I wake up to a knock on the door before the alarm goes off.
It’s morning enough and weekday enough that I don’t instinctively think an axe murderer has come to kill me. I drag myself to the front door, knocking into Loki’s water bowl by accident in the process.
“Whoever you are, you’d better be bearing pastries.”
I unlock the door, and no one is there. I peer around the peeling wallpaper and wonky floorboards and notice a small square box at my feet. I recognize it, even though it’s covered with shipping labels. I don’t need to see the return address to know it came from my childhood home.
To: Everlynne Lawson
From: Martin Lawson
OPEN
It is the ultimate fuck-you from Dad. He knows it. I know it. His guess is I won’t open the box. That I don’t have the guts to face what’s inside it. He would be right. But the fact that he is trying to hurt me is new. Well, mission accomplished, Dad. I am hurt. A stab-to-the-heart hurt.
Why would he do this to me?
Begrudgingly, I pick up the cursed thing and carry it into my room, putting as much space as I can between us. Loki is at my feet, sensing my looming distress and wanting a front-row seat in case this develops into a full-blown meltdown.
The box is heavy. Heavier than it probably should be. Heavy with memories. With regrets. With all the things I didn’t say and should’ve. Heavy with one moment of recklessness that turned my life on its axis. I tuck it into my closet, between old boots and balled-up dresses I’m too lazy to hang.
My hands linger on the box’s surface. It’s an engraved wooden thing. My fingertips tingle. A part of me wants to open the box. Another part knows how badly it is going to affect me. I’m currently bottling up a lot of things in order to survive, and opening this box would unleash my demons all at once.
I hear the flick of the button of the coffee machine outside my room. Colt roars out a yawn. I can see him from my ajar bedroom door, stretching. The door to my room is halfway closed, so he can’t see me.
Nora appears next to him in the hallway. She snakes her arms around his torso, pressing her head to his chest. He pats her ass, then pushes her hair to one side with his free hand.
“Well?” he says. “There you have it. Morticia has finally found her Gomez, and he doesn’t even seem like a sociopath or anything.”
Wait, is he talking about me? Nora quickly rushes to my defense. She swats her boyfriend’s chest. “Stop calling her that, you big meanie.”
“C’mon, Nor. You know I like her.” He pats her ass again as he moves toward the kitchen. She follows him. I press myself against my door so I can still hear them. “She’s a great girl. Funny. Smart. Kinda hot, if you take out all the weird black shit she wears. I’m just not down with how you’re so overprotective of her.”
Colt throws our fridge open. I don’t need to be there to know he is chugging our milk straight from the carton.
“I’m not overprotective of her,” Nora objects.
“That so? Great. Move in with me, then.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Right. Remind me why again?”
“Ugh.” Nora stomps her foot. “You don’t understand, do you? She doesn’t have any friends here. She barely leaves the house when it’s not for work. She’s lonely. She’s sad. She’s lost. And . . . look.” She takes a breath. I hold mine. I don’t care that I’m eavesdropping. It is me they are talking about. I need to hear it. What they say about me when they don’t know that I’m listening. The hard truth they keep at bay.