Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Whatever Leo’s issue was, I hoped that he’d keep it to himself when we got to Eugene. I was going to have a hard enough time making nice with Lily without her boyfriend causing a bunch of bullshit. My stomach knotted in a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I’d always want to see my siblings, no matter how fucked up our relationship was, but I also dreaded it.
It was impossible to explain the feeling of being an outcast in your own family to people that hadn’t experienced it. Knowing that they loved you, but didn’t necessarily want you around was… heartbreaking. It made you unsure of yourself in a way that you hadn’t been before. It made you question your worth.
“First hurdle is over,” Mark said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. “Painless, right?”
I didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble. I hadn’t been worried about the men. It was the women who’d make snide remarks and talk shit about me behind my back. Before I could say anything, Olive’s wail filled the cab of the truck.
“Just climb back,” Mark said, glancing in the mirror. “We’re not stoppin’ until we’re behind the gates.”
“Never in a million years,” I grumbled as I climbed over the seat, “did I ever think I’d be nursing a baby in a moving vehicle like it was 1972.”
“Cost-benefit analysis,” Mark said, leaning out of my way. “Better to keep moving.”
“I know,” I replied. I shushed the baby as I unbuckled her seatbelt and pulled her into my arms. “I promise it won’t always be like this,” I crooned. “Some day, I’m going to nurse you in a rocking chair, with sun shining through the window and the Beatles playing.”
“The Beatles, huh?” Mark said.
“What can I say,” I said with a shrug. “I’m a fan.”
“No lullabies?”
“I doubt I even know any,” I replied as I quickly and awkwardly changed Olive’s diaper. “Farrah wasn’t really a lullaby type of parent, but I can probably sing every Beatles song from start to finish.”
“My mom was more of an Alabama fan,” Mark said.
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t really sure what to say, because anything even remotely nice would’ve sounded insincere. At some point, maybe I’d be able to say something kind about Mark’s mother, but not yet. Not when I could still remember the satisfaction in her voice when she’d told me he’d left me.
“Dad was more of a Zeppelin guy,” he said, clearing his throat. “The Who. Pink Floyd. Bob Dylan. Creedence.”
“Really? I would’ve thought The Monkeys,” I replied sarcastically.
Mark barked out a laugh. “Oh, they were top ten, for sure.”
We discussed different bands we liked, both old ones and new, while I fed the baby. By the time I’d buckled her back in and was climbing into the front, we’d moved onto movies.
“Back to the Future was ahead of its time,” he said, pointing at me.
“Was that an intentional pun?” I asked with a laugh. “Plus, there’s no comparison. How you could think that Back to the Future is even close to being as good as Dirty Dancing is beyond me.”
Mark scoffed.
“That was a movie that dealt with social issues—”
“And was sexy as fuck,” Mark cut in.
“Well, yeah,” I drawled. “Patrick Swayze was fucking delicious.”
“Jennifer Grey,” Mark said, smacking his lips. “When she’s in those shorts, dancing down that little bridge thing? Damn.”
“That does it for you, huh?” I asked with a laugh. “Cut-offs and a pair of white sneakers?”
“If you hadn’t noticed,” he said, turning his head to give me a look. “I had a type.”
“What?” I practically screeched. “I don’t look anything like Jennifer Grey—before the nose job or after.”
He laughed. “I didn’t mean your face.” He shrugged.
I snickered as I realized he was right. In my late teens and early twenties, I had been shaped like Baby in Dirty Dancing.
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “too bad I couldn’t fit in those cut-offs now if someone paid me.”
“Fuck,” he spat with a huff. “Kill me if you’re ever shaped like that again.”
“Hey,” I said, a little confused and offended.
“Cecilia,” he said, his voice deepening, “you’re ten times sexier now than you were then. Jesus, I want to bite your ass every time you turn your back to me.”
I choked a little on the spit in my mouth.
“Too much truth?” he asked in amusement.
“No,” I wheezed.
“Good.” His hand came across the seat and gripped my thigh, and I was acutely aware of how close his pinky was to the seam of my pants. “Just so you know, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you—not even when you’re putting on a pad the size of a diaper just to prove a point.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I shrugged.
“I want to see a red mark the shape of my hand on your ass,” he said, his eyes on the road. “I want to put hickeys on the insides of your thighs. I want to feel your tits against my face as I’m fucking you. God, I want to fuck you so bad, my teeth ache.”