Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Two, because I’m not in the mood to buy shit.
And three, because spending this much time alone together has already turned me into the Grinch Who Smoked Pot at Christmas.
I can only be so high around the Collins clan without raising suspicions.
Learned that the day I gulped down two helpings of my mother’s favorite chunky clam chowder she has our cook make – a dish I previously only had two spoonfuls of before filling up on bread.
What can I say?
Sometimes the shit I smoke makes me fucking hungry.
“Bambi,” I calmly start after a heavy sigh, “you know why I wanna wait to do Christmas shit with you. Just like you know I’m not fucking cheating on you. You do this shit all the time when you don’t get your way. You pick a fucking fight with me and then piss me off to the point I just do what you want anyway.”
She less than innocently looks away.
“It’s not happening this time, babe. Our Christmas shit together is gonna wait ‘til I get back. And the reason we’re cutting shit early tonight is because I’m having Sunday dinner with my family just like I always do when Noah comes home from college. And even though he’ll be here with us for the next few weeks, he still wants us to keep the tradition.”
Fuck if I know why.
“Then bring me!”
Instinctively, my face frowns.
“What? Are you ashamed of me or some shit?”
Yes.
In so many ways.
Hell, in literally all the ways.
No part of me is proud of being her boyfriend.
“You are!” She squawks, stubby fingers flapping around. “Ohmygod you are!”
“No!” I force myself to deny a little louder. “I just…I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’ve barely been dating-”
“It’s almost fucking Christmas, Collins! We’ve been dating for months! Months!”
God, it has been months.
More months than I ever thought she’d last.
More months than I wanted her to last.
More months than I wanted to last with her.
I frantically run my fingers through my hair while silently searching for some reason – any reason – to deny her request.
To make her get out of my car and walk inside her own house.
“I’m meeting your family,” she forcefully declares and begins to dig into her purse. When Bambi pulls out a makeup compact, she squeaks once more. “I’m so excited! Parents love me!”
Barely audible, I whisper as I back out of her driveway, “I highly fucking doubt that…”
The drive from her house to mine is uncomfortable to say the least.
My high has completely worn off, and the fact that bringing her home for one of these dinners is not only something I have no desire to do, but basically pisses all over something I had been keeping sacred. Pres belonged at these meals. She was shining. She was glowing. She was hard to resist wanting to be around. Even though my dad didn’t want us together for whatever ludicrous logic he conjured up while fucking wasted on import beer, he could still see what a great person she was.
I’d still use the word great now, but something is changing. I like to think she’s just playing the role she’s found herself in but getting drunk and calling me out on bullshit in front of an audience was fucked up. Almost as fucked up as the text that was passed around of Bambi's face on a deer with the comment underneath “What Coke Can Do for Her'” that circulated shortly after. She says it wasn't her, but I don’t know. She’s never given me a reason to doubt that she’s telling me the truth, but I’m not the only one hiding something.
And I can’t ask her what, without being ready to be honest about my own bullshit.
Or fessing up to lying without lying like when I told her I wouldn’t get “that high” on coke again. I specifically added “that high” because I knew I’d keep doing the shit.
Because I wanted to keep doing the shit.
Among other things…
If having two different girlfriends has taught me fucking anything, it’s the importance of word choice.
Another heavy sigh is leaked into the air as I pull into the driveway noticing everyone is already home, most likely just waiting for my overdue arrival. The car is barely in park when Bambi immediately gets out, too giddy to control herself. Her enthusiasm would probably be cute to most.
To me, it’s disgusting.
And aggravating.
And the last thing I want to add to what was most likely already going to be an uncomfortable meal.
I reluctantly kill the engine, slide out of my car, and drag my feet behind her.
This is going to be a fucking disaster.
We enter through the front door and are immediately greeted by the smell of lobster ravioli and garlic bread.
Ah.
We’re having Noah’s favorite dish, which means he’s either in a pissy mood – girlfriend dumped him, didn’t get the internship he wanted, lost at a beer pong tournament – or that they’re praising him on his latest accomplishment – got a new girlfriend, made a new connection, passed a final.