Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
"Whose dumb idea was that?"
I point to her.
She makes an ugh face.
"We didn't make dinner together, so we'll get breakfast," I say. "Then dumb pictures outside La Sagrada."
She shakes her head. "We make breakfast. Then my turn. I want to try the movie theater."
"On one condition," I say.
"Since when did you get conditions?"
I shrug take it or leave it.
She motions go on.
"I get to eat you out first."
Chapter Thirty-Four
VAL
My blush settles as I fix our coffee, but my thoughts struggle to stay in line. They keep flitting to images of Dare between my legs. Or over me. Or behind me.
Anywhere, really.
Everywhere, really.
Maybe he's right. Maybe we can wait to discuss heavy things.
Wasn't I the one begging him to stick to lighter topics? This is what I want. Only it feels off somehow, like I'm ignoring something important.
Then he wraps his arms around me and I forget about my objections. I want to stay glued to him, right here, forever.
He releases me and surveys our ingredients. Once we decide on a spinach and cheese omelet, he arranges everything on the counter and asks, "You want to chop or fry?"
"Chop." I rinse the spinach in the sink. "You're good at this."
"Making breakfast?" He puts a pan on the burner.
"Working together." I tear the leaves and lay them on the cutting board. "And, yeah, making breakfast. A lot of guys can barely boil water."
"I had to be," he says. "Not like Mr. Dickson was going to make dinner for Brian. When he had a girlfriend hanging out, sure, he was happy to ask her to cook. But he burned frozen pizza."
"Was that hard?"
"I never really thought about it. It was just another part of being an older brother. I made sure Brian had dinner every night. I didn't realize that was weird until I saw other families. Saw the way your mom cooked for you and your sister every night. Or Tricky's parents made everyone sit down to dinner. But it's not like their families are sunshine and rainbows."
"I know."
"I sound defensive?"
"I didn't say anything." I chop the spinach into tiny pieces. Then the cheese.
"Maybe I am." He cracks eggs. "Even though I fucking hate my dad, he's still my dad."
"You don't want other people talking shit?"
"No. You can talk shit. It's more… I don't want people to think Brian had less. Or that I'm from a shitty family. Even though I think it."
"I know what you mean."
"You do?" he asks.
"Yeah, if Lucia is giving me shit, I might think she's being bitchy, but if someone else says it, I'll come to her defense."
"She's not an asshole though."
"We're all assholes sometimes."
He nods true and spreads oil over the pan. "I guess I see his influence, sometimes."
"Oh?"
"Yeah." The pan sizzles as he adds the spinach. "After all, I made him proud all these years, sleeping with different women."
"You noticed that?"
"Of course." He sautés. "But it's like That's So Raven. I saw this vision of my future, right, and by trying to avoid it, I caused it."
"That's a throwback."
"Bri got into it," he says. "He loves all those shows. They're sunny and bright and everything is okay."
"Dysfunctional families work through their shit."
"Every problem solved in twenty-two minutes," he says.
"What if I create a family sitcom?" I ask. "Will you be proud?"
"Not if it's bullshit."
"Really? What if I win an Emmy?"
"I'll be proud of our beach house," he says. "But not in the work. Not if you don't believe in it."
"What if I do?"
"Then I'll take you to the doctor to have your head examined." He looks at me. "You hate that shit."
"Maybe there's a way to do it right." I add the cheese. "To create a sitcom about a family who's dysfunctional and solves their problems in twenty-two minutes, but they don't solve all their problems. They still have others. But they try to love each other and that's what matters."
"It almost sounds sweet like that."
"Maybe it is."
"Do you want to write sitcoms?"
"It's just a thought," I say.
"Like the temp tattoos?"
"Like that."
"Another idea of the person you could become." He looks to me. "Archie said something when I got here. About school. That it might be too hard for you, too much. He thought you were worried about disappointing me."
"I am."
"Is that why you give me shit about work?"
"Part of it."
He stirs the eggs.
"You have big expectations for me," I say. "The way my dad does. And you both mean well, but I don't know if I can live up to that."
"I just want you to be happy."
"You sound like a cheesy sitcom."
"Fuck, I do." He laughs. "But it's true. That's what matters to me, that you're happy."
"That's sweet."
"No. It's selfish. 'Cause when you're happy, I'm happy. And when you're miserable"—he looks to me—"it hurts everywhere."
"Don't make me jump you."
"Make you?"
"Yeah, if you're going to say all this sweet shit, I won't be able to control myself." I press my hand to his chest. "And I'm trying to talk to you, because I know you'll distract me with sex."