Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
And now he’s witnessed the first breakdown I’ve had in years.
Great.
Fuck this summer.
Fuck these people.
Fuck the whole current state of my life.
FIVE
I had my first kiss when I was twelve.
It was a Saturday morning. I was standing at the stove about to cook scrambled eggs. I didn’t hear my mother return home the night before, so I assumed I was in the house alone. I had just cracked two eggs into a pan when I heard my mother’s bedroom door open.
I looked over to see an unfamiliar man walking out of her bedroom holding a pair of work boots. He paused when he saw me at the stove.
I’d never seen him before. My mother was always in a new relationship or a new breakup. I did my best to stay out of her way, whether she was falling in love or getting her heart broken. Both were equally dramatic.
I’ll never forget the way the man looked at me. It was a slow gaze, from head to toe, like he was hungry and I was a meal. It was the first time a man had ever looked at me like that. I instantly felt the hair on my arms rise and I immediately turned my attention back to the stove.
“You not gonna say hello?” the man asked.
I ignored him. I was hoping if he thought I was rude, he’d leave. But instead, he walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter next to the stove. I was focused on stirring the eggs. “You make enough for me?”
I shook my head. “We only had two eggs.”
“Sounds like just enough. I’m starvin’.”
He walked over to the table and started putting on his work boots. I had finished scrambling the eggs by the time he had his boots on. I didn’t know what to do. I was hungry and they were our only two eggs, but he was sitting at the table like he expected me to feed him. I didn’t even know who the hell he was.
I transferred the eggs to a plate, grabbed a fork and tried to rush out of the kitchen toward my bedroom. He reached me in the hallway, grabbing my wrist and pushing me against the wall.
“Is this how you treat guests?”
He grabbed me by the jaw and kissed me.
I was struggling to get away from him. His mouth was painful. Stubble dug into my face and he smelled of rotten food. I kept my teeth clenched tight, but he just kept squeezing my jaw harder, trying to pry my mouth open. I finally hit him upside his head as hard as I could with the plate of eggs.
He pulled back and slapped me.
Then he left.
I never saw him again. I never even knew his name. My mother woke up a few hours later and saw the broken plate and the uneaten eggs sitting at the top of the trash can. She yelled at me for wasting the last two eggs.
I haven’t eaten eggs since that day.
But I’ve slapped plenty of my mother’s boyfriends since then.
I say all this because when I stepped out of the shower a few minutes ago, all I could smell were eggs. The smell is still lingering.
It’s making me sick to my stomach.
There’s a knock at my door as soon as I finish dressing. Sara peeks her head in and says, “Baptismal dinner in five minutes.”
I have no idea what that means. Are they super religious or something?
“What’s a baptismal dinner?”
“Marcos and Samson have dinner with us every Sunday night. It’s our way of celebrating the end of the influx of renters. We eat together and wash away the weekenders.” She opens the door more and says, “That dress looks good on you. Want me to do your makeup?”
“For dinner?”
“Yeah. You’re about to meet Samson.” She grins, and it makes me realize how much I hate being set up, even though this is my first experience with it. I start to tell her I already met Samson, but I keep that to myself and hoard it along with all the other secrets I’ve kept in my life.
“I don’t really want makeup. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Sara looks disappointed, but she leaves. At least she takes hints well.
A few seconds later, I hear voices downstairs that don’t belong to any of the people that live in this house.
I stare at the wrinkled sundress I’ve been wearing all day. It’s wadded up on the floor by the bed. I pick it up and change back into it. I’m not about to go downstairs and try to impress anyone. If anything, I’d like to achieve the opposite.
My father is the first to notice me when I reach the bottom of the stairs and make my way into the kitchen.
“You look refreshed,” he says. “Is the room okay?”