Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
You know… so it would not seem like a date at all.
Instead, she gave me her address and told me to knock on the door when I arrived as the doorbell was broken.
It could mean nothing, but I find it encouraging she trusts me enough to know where she lives.
Emory’s house is in a neighborhood that I would call typical Arizona, where the residences are all stucco in various shades of white to taupe with rust or brown colored tiled roofs. It’s Phoenix middle class, where the yards are all landscaped the same with mostly rock and native species of succulents that don’t require irrigation. The streets have sidewalks and nice lighting, setting a mood for evening strolls around the block. It’s suburbia, an idea that’s never appealed to me very much. This neighborhood just oozes monogamy, marriage, and an average of 2.7 kids to each house. I’m a little surprised someone like Emory—educated and working an executive position—would choose to live here rather than the more hip city life.
Regardless, her home isn’t the reason I’m attracted to her and I don’t think twice about the homemade wreath made of plastic flowers and fake cactus hanging from the wooden door as I knock on it.
I’m surprised to hear voices inside, although I can’t make out the words.
Voices, as in plural, and most definitely feminine.
I’m stunned speechless when the door swings open quickly and I’m facing a tiny little girl with her head tilted back to look up at me. She has the same black hair and blue eyes as Emory, and she’s holding a chicken drumstick in one hand.
“Felicity,” a woman groans in frustration from somewhere inside the house, and then I hear stomping feet. It’s not Emory but another woman who appears. She has golden hair worn long and loose, parted on the side, and swept across her forehead. Her eyes are a warm brown and her skin is tanned, and she looks like a sunny, California girl. I’m sure some would even nickname her Barbie.
She looks to be in her early twenties, has the same facial features as Emory. The same graceful and delicate lines of the nose and cheeks.
Definitely closely related, but there is a difference.
This woman has brutal scarring over the left side of her face that I can see as she gets closer, starting right above her jaw and extending down along her neck.
Not cuts, but they look like burn scars… knobby patterned welts that are both red and pale in ridges and valleys across her skin. They disappear into the collar of her shirt, and when I bring my eyes back to hers, I can see she’s bothered by my perusal as she pulls her hair forward over her shoulder to help hide her skin from my sight.
Her eyes won’t meet mine and she ducks her head, puts an arm across the chest of the little girl and pulls her back. “Felicity… I told you to stay at the table.”
An American accent mostly, but there’s a faint lilt to it. It’s not the same crisp, slightly formal tone as Emory’s clearly English accent.
Before the kid can answer the blonde woman, Emory comes trotting into the living room, head tilted while pushing an earring into her lobe.
Her eyes move to the woman and kid, then to me. She gives me a sheepish but brief glance of apology, for what, I’m not sure, and then turns to the little girl. Squatting down, she puts her hands on the child’s shoulders and says, “Promise to be a good girl for Auntie Jenna, okay?”
“Promise, Mummy.” The little girl nods her head, blue eyes staring at Emory solemnly.
“Love you,” Emory says and leans in to kiss the child on the cheek. She straightens, looks to the blonde woman and says, “I’ll be home by 9:00 PM, no later.”
While those words were said to the other woman, they were meant for me. It meant our time tonight had an expiration date.
“Go easy on the ice cream,” Emory continues and gives a pointed look at who I now understand might actually be Emory’s daughter, a fact that doesn’t set all that well with me. I had never considered the woman would have a kid, much less be married.
Although she doesn’t wear a ring.
And there’s no man here.
Divorced? Single mom?
These are potential facts that should send me scurrying out the door with a hasty apology to Emory that I won’t bother her again. Kids are a definite “no” for me.
Not that I don’t like kids.
Love, love, love them.
As long as they belong to someone else and I don’t have to be responsible for their well-being and prosperity. When you date a single mom, there’s the risk that said single mom will want to rope you into parenthood and I’m not ready for it.