Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Beckett watched me set my sweater aside. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I picked up my beer again and took a sip, desperate for something to cool me off.
“Who was your first?”
I winced, unhappy with the memory. “Jason. He was always pressuring me, and one day I just gave in. It wasn’t romantic. Or good.”
“That makes me want to kick his ass all over again.”
I smiled at him. “If I could go back, I’d do it all differently.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.” I finished my beer and studied the bottle in my hands. “I slept with Jason because I was looking for something that felt like love. I didn’t have the real thing.”
“You could have,” he said quietly.
My breath caught, and I looked over at him. “What?”
“Nothing.” His cheeks colored, and he stood up. “It’s late. I should—”
Just then, a door opened and Mr. Weaver appeared in his pajamas. “Have either of you seen Cynthia Mae?”
Five
Beckett
“She’s not here, Dad,” I said firmly, surprised at how even my voice sounded. My insides felt like I was on a runaway horse.
“But I was with her this afternoon. Now I can’t find her.”
I tossed back the rest of my beer and set the bottle down on the coffee table. “Come on, it’s late. Back to bed.”
“But did she call?” he persisted as I walked toward him.
“Not today,” I said truthfully.
Actually, the fucking truth was that she hadn’t called in thirty-two years.
“Shouldn’t we at least check that answering machine thing?” he asked.
“I already checked it.” Placing my hands on my dad’s shoulders, I turned him toward his bedroom. “No messages.”
I didn’t even look at Maddie as I steered my father through the bedroom door. But I felt her eyes on me.
DiMaggio, curled up in his dog bed in the corner of the room, picked up his head when we entered. “Go back to sleep, boy,” I told him.
I sent my dad into the bathroom to guard against a nighttime accident, and while I waited for him, I berated myself for all the shit I’d just said to Maddie. What the hell was the point in dredging up the way I felt about her back then? Or asking her why she liked jerks? Was I trying to punish her? What was I expecting her to say about it now?
Maybe it was the alcohol. Talking about my feelings was not something I normally did—it was something I avoided. But Maddie was so easy to talk to, and even though I’d never admit it, life here could get lonely.
Anyway, I wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on with me tonight, but as soon as I got my dad settled, I needed to say goodnight and get the hell upstairs before I said something I’d seriously regret in the morning.
Or worse, put my hands on her.
I suppressed a groan, thinking of her bare legs, the scent of her perfume, the way she’d peeled that sweater off her shoulders. One glimpse of her cleavage in that little white tank top and I’d nearly lost my mind and said don’t stop there.
Christ, I was a dick. All she wanted was for me to be a friend to her. Not another asshole who wanted to get her clothes off. For fuck’s sake, she’d just gotten divorced. Her child was upstairs. She was here because she trusted me.
My dad came out of the bathroom and I put him back to bed, glad when he didn’t fight me. “See you in the morning,” I said, pulling the bedroom door shut behind me.
Maddie wasn’t on the couch anymore, and I thought maybe she’d already gone upstairs. But I found her in the kitchen, standing at the sink rinsing out our empty beer bottles.
“Got a returnables bin?” she asked.
“In the garage. I’ll take care of it. You can go up to bed.” I took the empty bottles from her and ducked through the mudroom into the garage, dropping each bottle into the bin with a clank. But when I went back into the kitchen, she was still standing there, leaning back against the sink, her hands draped over the edge of the counter.
“Is your dad okay?” she asked.
“He’s fine. He sometimes has trouble sleeping.”
“Who’s Cynthia Mae?” Her voice was quiet. “Was that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he—does he do that often? Ask where she is?”
“Lately he does.”
“And she’s been gone for how long?”
“Thirty-two years.”
Her mouth turned down. “That’s tough.”
Leaning back against the counter, I folded my arms over my chest. “The weird thing is, he never talked about her when I was growing up. So to hear her name now is sort of jarring.”
She came over and stood next to me, so we were hip to hip. “Do you remember her?”
“No.” I hesitated. “Sometimes I think I do, but I was so young it’s not likely. I’ve only seen pictures.”