Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“And why not?”
Are we really having this conversation?
“Yes, we’re really having this conversation,” he says, as if he can read my mind.
I scramble to stay on top of this exchange.
“I know you think that I try to protect you too much when it comes to your dad,” I say.
Ethan nods.
“But it’s not just with your dad. It’s with everything,” I tell him. “And how irresponsible would it be if . . .” It’s hard to even say the words. “If I did date Cole or see him in some kind of way, and then he left.”
His eyes sparkle. “That would be the best story ever. My mom dated a professional baseball player. That’s at least three extra cool points in high school.”
I snort, shaking my head.
“I love you,” he says, getting to his feet. “I love you so much. But stop babying me. Okay?”
“Never.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know that I thought Charlie was going to be my new dad there for a minute. But I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid.”
“No. I’m not. And if you hang out with Cole, I’m not going to lose my mind when he goes back home. I’m going to think it was really cool that he hung out with you, and maybe me if you’re willing to share the fun with me. I’ll have some great stories for high school.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s so not what I was expecting. So I pull the kid, who’s taller than I am now, into my chest and hug him tight.
“Can you let go now?” he asks, squished against me. “I’d like to have some pizza and then go play a game.”
I release him and muss up his hair as he pulls away—much to his dismay. He takes two slices of pizza and starts up the stairs.
“Ethan?” I call after him.
He stops on the landing. “Yeah?”
“You know, you’re right. I should’ve told you about your dad. I’m sorry.” I smile at him. “It’s always going to be me and you, kid.”
His grin is brilliant and warms my heart. “You better believe it.”
I collapse into the recliner, too exhausted from the conversation to even pick up the dishes right away. Instead, I close my eyes and listen to the faint sound of Ethan yelling into his mic in his room.
As if on autopilot, I pull my phone from my pocket and send two quick texts.
We’re home and he’s fine. Love you, Val.
I smile as I type out the other.
Sorry that I had to cut that short. All is well now. (Mostly.)
The response comes back instantly.
Cole:
I’m glad to hear it. Been wondering.
Me:
A mom’s duty never ends. He also saw the pizza and plates and put two and two together.
Cole:
Shit. Is everything okay?
Me:
He just thinks I’m SUPER COOL now.
Cole:
He’s right. How’d he take me being over there? I know you were worried about that and I feel guilty for not picking up the evidence now.
Me:
He took it well. He’s upset he wasn’t involved.
Cole:
Well, my mom is making her famous roast and potatoes on Sunday. She would think that I’m SUPER COOL if the two of you joined us. (No pressure at all.)
I take a deep, shaky breath. Eating with his family? I already know his mother vaguely, and she seems nice. But wouldn’t eating with them . . .
Cole:
You’re overthinking things.
Me:
How’d you know?
Cole:
Because you’re breathing.
Me:
Ha.
Cole:
Just think about it. Let me know tomorrow. No rush.
Me:
Okay. Going to go clean up this mess now. Talk to you tomorrow.
Cole:
Thanks for having me over.
Me:
Thanks for coming.
Cole:
*ignores the joke on the tip of my tongue*
Me:
*ignores the joke about the tip of your tongue*
I turn my phone off before we banter back and forth all night. And then I get up, gather the pieces of dinner, and take them upstairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY
COLE
Saturdays aren’t as exciting as they used to be.
I stretch my arms overhead. A pop sounds loud enough in my shoulder that I lie perfectly still and wait for the pain.
A burst of fire streaks across my shoulder and down my arm. It burns across the top of my back and bleeds into my spine. The pain radiates into my ribs. I cringe, holding my breath, and wait for relief.
“Fuck,” I groan, hissing through my teeth. The discomfort worsens before it gets better. “Ugh.”
I focus on my breath. My chest rises and falls, unsteadily at first. But as I concentrate on the rhythm, it evens out.
“There you go,” I whisper as the ache dissipates. “That’s better.”
It’s my own fault that the throbbing is back. I haven’t been to a therapist since I got here. Granted, I thought I would be home by now, but I’ve really made no effort to rehab myself in a couple of weeks.
What’s it matter if I go to rehab or not?
I shake my head, shifting the thought aside.