Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Come to think of it, that’s more reason why I should sweat bullets.
I don’t know what Patton told Mom, but she’s bound to get carried away.
She always does. Anytime she thinks I’m involved with a woman, even when it’s never been a thing and I’d rather chew porcupine quills. I’ve had to dodge dinners and surprise outings with women I have zero interest in, or else give in for an evening of drab tightrope walking where I try to humor Mom without making the girl feel like hot trash from my total disinterest.
Only, with Winnie, it might be different this time.
Maybe that’s why I feel so damn uptight about this, almost disembodied, hovering outside myself and watching as I try to keep my shit together.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. She glances at me.
“We can always do this another time,” she says quietly.
“That would be worse,” I tell her.
“Worse?”
Shit. Poor girl.
“Canceling on Delly Rory isn’t a walk in the park. You’d better have a damn good reason. To her, hosting comes only second to family.”
I wonder if it reminds Winnie of her parents from the way she inhales and her nostrils flare.
But Mom, no matter how much she wants to be part of our lives, knows we’re adults. She sees we’re capable of making our own choices. Of course, she wants to be part of those choices.
She definitely wants to make sure we carve out a space in our lives for her, but that’s different from wanting to micromanage us into arranged fucking marriages like the unlucky woman next to me.
As Winnie starts picking at the skin around her nails, I reach over and take her hand. “It’s fine. I told you, we’ll keep this simple. We go in, talk about bees, I bring up Colt as much as possible, and we get out with a smile and a good night.”
“And cardinals, right?”
“Sure, cardinals.” Mom does love to talk about birds and the family symbol that shows up in so much of her art. It’s harmless, really, and Winnie seems to like the whole idea.
“Oh, and I’ll play down whatever dating stuff your brother told her,” she promises, squeezing my hand.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I should be thrilled.
Instead, I take a moment to let that sink in. Weirdly, even though I know Mom will be all over it to everyone’s annoyance, the fact that Winnie feels like she needs to downplay it bothers me.
Which makes absolutely no sense.
We’re not dating.
Not for real.
Not properly.
I haven’t asked her to be my girlfriend, either, and though I’m pretty sure we’re exclusive with our odd little arrangement, it’s not because we agreed to anything.
I’m not ready for that step yet.
At least, I didn’t think I was, but now I’m here with her, and this visit feels less terrifying than I thought.
Remember, jackass, you’re not dating her. You’re setting your mother straight because your shit-flinging little brother opened his fat mouth and lied for kicks like he always does.
I need to stake that thought in my head before I forget.
Before I fall into easy laughs or innocent touches with Winnie in front of Mom.
Before I make this insanity too painful to quit.
We get out of the car and head to the front door, very much not hand in hand. I do that deliberately.
She keeps a few generous inches between us, really hanging on to this ‘just friends’ ruse. I don’t let that bother me, though.
Inside, whatever’s baking smells good.
Always does, but I think Mom has upped her game.
That’s Junie’s influence, giving Mom off-the-cuff lessons ever since she and Dexter tied the knot, and Mom has really taken it on board. Today it’s a fruity dessert smell, maybe cinnamon, too, though I’m no expert.
“I think she’s busy cooking,” I say when no one jumps out to welcome us. I tilt my head, angling my ear to the faint blues music bleeding from the kitchen. Safe to say she’s dancing in there too. “Let me give you a tour while my mother’s occupied.”
“You sure?” Winnie glances around and gives me a sharp, amused look. “We don’t have all week to make her think nothing’s going on.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.” She snickers.
I take her hand without thinking. So much for fucking appearances.
“Come on, I’ll show you the library first. You’ll like it.”
“Library? You have a whole library? In your house? Has anyone ever told you that’s excessive?”
“No, little smart-ass.”
Smiling, she holds up her free hand. “Hey, I come from money, too, okay? I know what wealth looks like, but I bet your library is next level.”
To be fair, the shelves in Mom’s study have been cultivated over generations. Books that belonged to my great-grandparents still live on the shelves, filling the room with the cozy smell of long-lost memories the instant they’re opened.
This house has been in our family forever, and the library is one of the few things each generation has actively added to. Dad’s additions were the last and best, I think.