Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“He told me.” He shrugs, placing the doughnuts carefully into the cart. “I gave him your tricks and told him to try them.”
My eyes bulge. “What did you tell him?”
“That you drink wine. Or you paint a room a bunch of times. Or . . . you cry.”
I briefly close my eyes and try not to die on the spot.
Dylan makes a face. “Carter, why don’t we go see if there are any watermelons?”
“Okay!”
I give Dylan a smile as they scamper off to the produce aisle.
“Let this go,” I whisper. “It doesn’t matter what Carter told Jay. Jay’s nothing to you. And he wants it that way. So who cares?”
I glance down at my phone and see another text of a devil emoji from Della.
“Go have fun tonight and keep going forward,” I say softly. “Fuck Jay.”
Just not literally.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GABRIELLE
Murray’s on State, a bar that just opened if Della is to be believed, is hopping. It’s one of the more upscale bars I’ve visited—not that I’ve visited many. But I do appreciate the forest-green walls, bronze accents, and that the music’s not blaring so loud that you can’t hear yourself think.
Heads turn as we make our way to the bartender. I skim the crowd, wondering whether I’d recognize my high school classmates if I saw them. Or would they recognize me?
I pick at the scalloped, plunging neckline of the black, formfitting shirt I found in a box in the back of my closet. It’s the sexiest thing I own. With distressed jeans I bought in an emotional shopping binge a few months ago, and a pair of heels so the jeans don’t drag the ground, it’s very nineties. Della said I look hot. I’m choosing to lean into that opinion and not focus on the way my stomach is rounder than it was twenty years ago.
“Hey, ladies,” the bartender says. “What can I get for you tonight?”
“Amaretto sour,” Della says. “Gabby? What about you?”
Is this kid even old enough to serve us alcohol? I shake my head. “Lemon drop martini, please.”
“Coming right up,” he says with a wink.
“So what do you think?” Della asks. Her bright-red lips split her cheeks. “I’ve never been here before, but I heard it was the place to be these days.”
“The only place I know that is the place to be these days is drop-off at the school by seven fifty. If not, they’re tardy.”
Della laughs. “We’re expanding your horizons. By the end of the night, you’ll forget all about drop-off.”
I hope so.
The bartender hands us our drinks, assuring us the first one is on the house, and takes a tip from Della. Then we work our way through the growing crowd to a table along a wall.
“It’s been so long since I went out that I almost forget how,” I admit, taking a sip of my drink. Whoa, that’s strong.
“You are in good, capable hands tonight.” She leans forward, her cleavage on full display. “If you see anyone you’re interested in, let me know.”
I laugh. “What are you talking about? It’s not that easy.”
“What do you mean, it’s not that easy? Girl, men are the most predictable animals on the planet. I can read them like a book.”
“Is there a course to take for that?”
“It’s called having a stripper as your mother.” She lifts a brow, grinning. “And she was a damn good one, let me tell you. Some of my friends’ parents were doctors and lawyers, and my mom raked in double the amount of cash they did.”
Is she serious?
“It was a business to her,” Della says. “She used her body as a tool, just like a CEO uses his brain.”
“Is that something you just grew up knowing?”
“Until I was eighteen, I thought she was a traveling nurse.” She laughs. “I found out when a guy I was dating in college happened to go to her club and saw her. Awkward conversation. Dropped the boyfriend. But there was this . . . missing piece between Mom and me that fell into place.”
I take a drink and then set my glass on the table. “Is that why you’re so confident? Is that why you have such a . . . free, I guess, way about you? Because you really don’t seem to care what anyone thinks.”
“I don’t care.” She shrugs. “My confidence comes from being raised with a very body-positive mindset. It was all presented at an age-appropriate level, of course. Just because she was a stripper doesn’t mean she was a bad mom or negligent.”
“Of course not.”
“In a way, she was a better parent. She taught me to be proud of myself. To take care of myself. I remember her telling me from a young age that I was in charge of my body. I grew up not being ashamed of it.” She takes a drink. “What about you? What was your life like growing up?”