Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
My father is a businessman in every aspect of his life and once he’s made a decision, that's it. Since I don't want to look like a spoiled baby in front of a cute boy, even if I'm disappointed, I grit my teeth and choose to swallow it down. Does it really matter that I was looking forward to having all that extra space, plus the added privacy? I guess not. I’ll eventually get over it, just like I get over everything.
“Okay,” I mutter, digging my nails into my palm instead of lashing out like I want to.
“I see you’re dressed for swimming,” Dad points out like he didn’t hear me inviting him to join in the fun.
“Yeah, Bianca’s coming over, remember? That’s why I asked if you wanted to go swimming with us.”
“Oh. That's nice sweetie, maybe next time. I have a bunch of work to get done.” His attention drifts and he turns back to Romero. Suddenly it's like I was never here to begin with. “In this house what is mine is yours. Anything you want, you only have to ask. We have a cook who comes six days a week. She takes off Saturday nights and all day Sunday, but always makes sure the kitchen is stocked.”
They pass me on their way out to the kitchen and all I can do is stand there and stare at them. It's not like I expect to have a say in anything, because I never do. Not really, but I can’t deny the anger that blooms inside my chest at his clear dismissal. Obviously, whatever Romero's story is, Dad wants to help him and that’s cool, but at the expense of brushing me off like I’m nothing. I reach the kitchen in time to hear Dad introduce Romero to Sheryl, our cook, and she's as kind to him as she's always been to me.
“Can I fix you something for breakfast?”
“No, thanks,” he mumbles his gaze on the floor, his voice thick and raspy. “I'm not really hungry.”
“That’s fine, but you be sure to stop back whenever you want.” She notices me hanging around and gives me one of her bright, kind smiles. “Good morning, Miss Middle School Graduate. I fixed your favorite: French toast and bacon, plus fresh orange juice.”
“Oh. Thank you.” And now Romero knows I just graduated middle school, which means he knows how old I am. Cue the embarrassment. I have to open the refrigerator door to abate the way my cheeks heat up.
Behind me, Dad speaks up. “You should really eat something.”
I'm almost jealous of the concerned tone he gives him. Yes my father loves and cares about me, but he never seems concerned, not like this. It's more like he's especially interested in Romero, like he cares if he eats.
Why? Who is he? And what about him would make my father care so much?
“I've made plenty,” Sheryl adds. “It's only a matter of pulling an extra plate from the cabinet.”
Great. He gets the wing I was supposed to move into, and now Sheryl is making him a plate of my special breakfast. I have to bite my tongue as I pour orange juice into a glass without asking if Romero wants any. He can get his own since he obviously lives here now.
“I’m really not hungry.” The edge in his voice becomes sharp, angry. Why is he mad? Because people are being kind to him? That seems ridiculous.
“Fair enough,” Dad murmurs in that gentle, caring way. “So long as you know everything you need is here. You don’t have to be shy. Why don’t I show you around the grounds, and then you can get settled into your room?”
Nothing hurts worse than to see the hand he places on this strange, rude kid’s shoulder as they walk out of the room. If I thought he’d give me the whole story, I’d think to ask Dad later why Romero is here and how long he’ll be staying, but I know my father. He’ll tell me to go hang out with Bianca or go swimming, or shopping. Whatever it takes to keep me out of his way.
Especially now that he has the son he always wanted.
I don’t know where that thought comes from, but it takes away my appetite until I have to finish the rest of my food. Sheryl went through all the trouble, and I don’t want to insult her like Romero did. Not that she seems to mind—she’s busy humming to herself as she pulls produce from shopping bags and washes it in the sink.
“Tatum?” My spirits lift immediately when I hear Bianca’s voice echoing through the entry hall.
“In the kitchen!” I call out. A few seconds later, she hurries in, all flushed and wide-eyed.
“Who is that boy outside with your dad?” She flashes an embarrassed little grin at Sheryl, who just laughs.