Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
He swallows. “You think I have drinks? I don’t think I’ve bought any drinks besides beer for myself in my entire life.”
“Try it. It’s fun.”
He jams the other half of the taco into his mouth. I sigh.
“You don’t really want me to go home, do you?” he asks through his mouthful.
“I’m just saying,” I say, grabbing the lemonade out of the fridge, “that you do pay for utilities and real estate taxes. It would make sense for you to get some use out of it more than the garage.”
He flinches. “So you’re saying I should sell the house? Mom and Dad bought it. They would be pissed.”
I roll my eyes and take out a glass, add some ice, and top it off with lemonade.
“I have to keep it. I need the garage. If I lived here, we’d fight over yours, and you don’t have space for my tools,” he says. “Unless you’re going to let me—”
“You need to use your whole house, not just the garage. Think about it. Think about the privacy you’d have. All of your things would be in one spot. You could watch television, eat, and sleep in the same space.”
“I do all of that here.”
I take a sip of my drink and watch him over the brim.
Banks has always had a thing about being alone. From the day my parents brought him home from the hospital, he’s been attached to me. There are pictures to prove it. Before he was old enough to move his arms, he would just stare at me. Once he could walk, my life without a constant shadow was over.
I can’t decide if my constant presence in his life made him this way or if he was just born like this. Either way, I can’t help myself. No matter how irritating he gets, I can’t get too mad.
Lucky for him.
“So,” he says, shifting in his seat. “I have an idea.”
I groan, putting the lemonade back in the fridge.
“Don’t act like that before you even hear what it is,” he says. “Give it a chance.”
“Your face gives you away. I see the bullshit written all over you.”
He snorts. “Just hear me out. This is a good one.”
“When you say it’s a good one, that always means that it’s going to be—”
“Fun?” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “It’s always fun, right?”
I’m not about to admit he’s right. It is usually fun—at least in some respects. But I don’t have the energy for him and his shenanigans tonight, thanks to Ms. One More Glance at the Crown Molding.
I’m two seconds from threatening to toss Banks out on his ass when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and unlock the screen.
Paige: Any idea why your brother Banks asked me where to order stickers? Because I’m kinda worried.
Oh, fuck.
My fingers travel swiftly over the keys.
Me: No. Also, why is he MY brother tonight?
Paige: Because I have a feeling that whatever he needs stickers for isn’t going to end well—it’s Banks and stickers, for crying out loud—and I don’t want my name attached to this. So … he’s YOUR brother. I’m tapping out on this one.
Me: So you think you’re tapping me in? No deal.
Paige: Oh, come on, Mad. You’ll be involved before it’s over anyway.
I roll my eyes. But she’s not wrong. Somehow, someway, I’ll be wrapped up in some sticker scenario before the week is over. I need to do something really nice for Jess so he’ll take pity on me whenever this erupts into the nightmare that I can already tell it’s going to be.
“Who are you texting?” Banks asks.
“Paige.”
Me: Point made. But I’d like the opportunity to call Not It sometimes.
Paige: I don’t make the rules.
“She told you about the stickers, didn’t she?” Banks sighs from across the room. “Tell her she’s a snitch, and I’m disappointed in her disloyalty.”
“Stickers?”
He makes a face. “Don’t act like she didn’t tell you.”
“She didn’t say shit.”
Me: I told him you didn’t mention the stickers, but he just let it slip. Don’t cave when he pressures you to admit you told me first.
Paige: Noted. Enjoy your brother tonight. I have to go make pancakes for dinner. Again.
Me: You could throw some blueberries in there to keep it interesting.
Paige: It’s obvious you’ve spent no time with children. If I go screwing with Ryder’s pancakes, I’ll never hear the end of it, and he probably won’t eat them either. Then he’ll be hungry at bedtime, and we’ll have to deal with that instead of … you know, doing what we like to do at bedtime.
Me: STOP, PAIGE.
Paige:
I reach for my glass of lemonade. I swipe around on the counter until I finally look up and see it. In Banks’s hand.
“So just hear me out,” he says, this time with a smirk.