Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“The boy who cried fucking wolf,” I snap the hair tie and then grab my eye cream. “He’s going to be the death of us.”
“So you’ve said a hundred times—”
“A million,” I argue, dabbing cream near the creases of my eyes.
I see Connor’s burgeoning grin in the mirror. “And yet, here we are. Very much alive.”
I glance at my phone on the counter. “This one feels different.”
It’s been a balancing act with our children. The idea that I could become my overbearing mother hangs over me and shadows every decision I make. It’s a war within myself not to fiercely protect them from every slight danger. To not make their decisions for them. To not blind them under a scalding lamp and interrogate them for their strange behaviors. Especially now as they’ve left adolescence and entered adulthood.
I don’t want to be her, and in the same breath, Connor doesn’t want to become his neglectful mother and miss moments in their lives where they truly need us. It’s a push and pull, and I’m always fucking terrified we’re not getting it right.
That fear has never really left me. I’m not sure it ever will.
Connor motions me with two fingers. “Play it again.”
After rinsing and drying my hands, I sidle next to him and replay the footage from the backdoor camera. Eliot’s face dips down into frame.
“Bonsoir.” He shudders, clearly cold—and not just from the caustic winter winds. “Do not be alarmed. I took a midnight dip. A dare of my own creation. You would be absolutely horrified, Mom. Which is…to my delight.” He flashes a teeth-chattering grin.
I glare at the screen, unamused.
Our son continues, “Donnelly, here, went first, as prompted by yours truly. He withstood the ice better than I. Luna, you chose a strong one. Hugs and kisses.” He mimes two cheek kisses. “Nighty night, heathens.”
Connor has an unreadable expression. It’s annoying. Until he says, “He’s lying.”
It’s a definitive answer.
“Eliot has been known to partake in ridiculous dares,” I remind him. “There’s a chance he’s not lying.”
“If it were a dare, Tom would be with him.”
He’s not wrong. I stare harder at the phone. “Maybe it was an initiation.”
“Into what?”
“Into their friend group.” He knows I’m referring to Tom, Eliot, and Luna. “Eliot would want Donnelly to feel included.”
Connor considers this. “It’s not impossible but improbable. With everything Donnelly has been through, Eliot would be more likely to waive that kind of charade.”
I agree.
I hate that he’s right. “Only one way to find out,” I say.
I have two tasks.
One: Prove that someone else heard the notification. Which will in turn prove that Connor is not immortal. His hearing is the first thing to go.
Two: Find out why Eliot was in the lake last night.
My son is the talk of Christmas Eve morning. Everyone heard about the midnight dip dare, and Ben even asked, “how did you not get frost bite?”
To which Eliot replied with a wry grin, “I’m immune.”
Ugh. He’s too much like his father for his own good. Though I’m sure Connor could say the same about me and Eliot’s flair for dramatics.
I need to simmer considerably before focusing on task two, so I find my sisters in the kitchen baking banana bread. The smell of charred Teflon immediately greets me.
“What are we burning this morning?” I ask, glancing at the freshly baked loaf and a tray of muffins. Unless the bottoms are singed black, they don’t appear to be burnt.
Daisy scrapes a frying pan in the sink. “Nothing to see or smell here.” She gives me a bright smile that I take as bullshit considering Lily’s brows are so furrowed, she might be causing permanent forehead wrinkles.
“Lily,” I say.
She caves instantly. “I didn’t think it was possible to burn eggs. Aren’t they un-burnable? I thought they just turn into rubber….rubber eggs.”
“Totally,” Daisy says into a nod. “I think it’s the frying pan’s fault.”
I offer my support by saying, “The muffins look edible.”
Lily beams. “They are. We didn’t burn those.”
I open the fridge. “Do you need me to help? I can make…” I try to find something in here I’m coordinated enough to whip up. Bacon. No. Last time I tried, grease flung at my face. I see the strawberries. “Fruit.”
“A fruit bowl would be fantastic,” Lily says, trying to scoot Daisy out of the sink so she can wash the pan, but Daisy won’t relinquish the task.
“I have it,” Daisy says, hiking her leg on the counter, basically bear-hugging the sink so Lily can’t intervene.
“I’m the one who burned the un-burnable eggs,” Lily says. “You hate washing dishes.”
“We all hate washing dishes, and I’m enjoying scrubbing this bad boy.”
I give Lily a sharp look. “You should be reveling in this time where we take these menial tasks off your hands.”
“Rose would be milking this all year,” Daisy tells her.