Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
And it doesn’t mean I’m a bad daughter or unworthy of love.
Wendy Ann sighs again. “She’s not a nightmare. She’s just Mom. I’m sorry you’re on the black sheep list this year, though. Seems like we all get a turn on it, sooner or later.”
“Not you.” I nudge her sensible black pump with the toe of my shiny leather boot. “You’re the brilliant baby of the family who can do no wrong. Mom hasn’t stopped talking about you graduating with a 4.2 since May.”
Wendy Ann slaps a hand to her face. “I know, God, I’m sorry. It’s so embarrassing.”
“Yeah, well, stop being so smart and awesome then, okay? You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“No, you’re making yourself look bad, at least to Mom,” she says, peering at me over her fingers. “Did you really have to quit your job now? When you’re already on the naughty list? You realize Mom is going to give birth to a litter of kittens when she finds out you left the bank.”
I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck to one side. Just thinking about the inevitable fallout is enough to make my muscles coil into knots. “She knows I’ve been apprenticing with a tattoo artist.”
“Apprenticing a couple nights a week as a hobby is very different than quitting your stable job with health benefits to scar people for life full time.”
I snort as I pace away from her chair. “They’re not scars. They’re decorations. Symbols of empowerment! Memories and mission statements and happiness written forever on the skin so you never forget the best parts of your life.” I spin, fisting a hand in the air as I pace back the way I came. “They’re art. And they’re my passion. This is why I quit the bank, Wendy Ann. I’ve already wasted too much time in a job I hate. It’s time to follow my bliss.”
“Yes, I understand, and I’m happy for you,” Wendy Ann says. “But that’s not how Mom will see things, and you know it.”
I blow out a breath, deflating as I wheeze, “Yeah, I know.”
“Just be sure to have your ducks in a row before she finds out. You’ll need to show proof of ongoing health insurance. I would also suggest a financial prospectus for your net income after expenses for the next five years, as well as the balance statement for your 401(k). I can help you put a spreadsheet together if you want. She loves a spreadsheet.”
“Right,” I say, not bothering to tell Wendy Ann that I stopped contributing to my 401(k) two months after I started at the bank as a junior loan officer. I just wasn’t making that much money after taxes, and I’ve never been the type to put off fun today for safety tomorrow.
Nope, I’m a “live in the moment, grab fun by the balls, and worry about what happens when the balls turn out to be sweaty and gross and infect you with a strange fungus later” kind of girl.
Which is why I sent Seven that invitation, even though he’s never officially met my family and doesn’t always play well with others. I thought we’d have fun together. I planned this party, after all. That means the band is top-notch, the booze is flowing freely, and there are plenty of fun things to do when you’re tired of drinking and dancing. I have lawn bowling set up behind the vineyard tasting room, a photo booth with dozens of props, a candy buffet, frisbee golf, and a few punching bags dangling from the trees not far from the tent.
The punching bags are mostly for me, in the event I need to blow off steam after another run-in with my mother.
She’s already told me to go put on “a real shirt,” hissing something about protecting the eyes of innocent children as I hurried down the hill to join Wendy Ann at the check-in spot. But I ignored her, of course. My bra is modest and covers way more of my breasts than my bikini top, which every child here has seen at the annual McGuire family lake party. It’s fucking ridiculous, especially considering my teenage cousins are wearing dresses so short. I saw Kayley’s entire ass when she leaned over to grab a handful of gummy worms across the candy table.
I was grateful for the excuse to hide from the party for a while, manning the check-in table and informing people looking for dinner at the winery that it’s closed for a private party.
But now, the check-in table is bare, save for two goody bags—one for my brother, Barrett, who is at the hospital delivering a baby with bad timing, and one for Seven, who is making it clear, once again, that we are just friends. We will not be swaying to a slow song or flirting over a heated bout of lawn bowling or stealing a kiss in the photo booth. I am still “too young for him,” despite the fact that I’ll be turning twenty-seven in two weeks.