Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Oh. I thought you just said you wanted to work for NASA. Or an automobile company.”
“But those are two entirely different things and I don’t want to waste my time or anyone’s money until I know for sure what I want to do, what direction I want to go, you know?”
He says you know a lot, but I say like a lot, so I guess that makes us even.
“How old is this old aunt of yours?”
“I don’t know, maybe eighty?”
“Eighty! I thought you were going to say like forty-five or something. That’s how old my mom’s sister is.”
“I should have clarified. My aunt is actually my great aunt—so, my grandmother’s sister.” He fidgets with his hands. “Grandma died about three years ago, and she and my aunt lived together before she passed. After she died, Aunt Myrtle moved in with us.”
That makes much more sense.
“Aunt Myrtle? That’s adorable.”
Roman laughs. “Zinger of a name, isn’t it?”
“Super vintage.”
“Quite vintage,” he agrees.
“You sound so formal when you talk about it,” I finally say, because Roman has the vocabulary of an English professor and the posture of one, too. It’s so unlike the vocabulary of any of the guys I’m used to—male athletes, primarily football players, who do a lot of grunting and speak in mostly simple sentences. It’s not that I’m knocking them or saying they’re all like that—all I’m saying is not a single one of them wants to work for NASA.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, and I can see he’s embarrassed to be called out, though there’s no reason he should be.
Being smart is cool.
And sexy.
Sure, Roman is a tad nerdy, but it’s clear he hasn’t grown into himself yet. I bet when he’s older he’ll be really good-looking once he fills out.
“Don’t ever apologize for the way you are.” I speak with authority, wishing I could take my own advice, knowing that a solid few times a week are spent feeling inadequate and less than.
Blame it on my sport. Blame it on my coaches.
And yes—I can blame it on my parents.
My mother could have starred in a season of Stage Moms, pushing me to practice and excel and practice some more to the point of exhaustion. I’m not sure what she wants from me. I’m hardly going to become a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader.
I don’t have the motivation for it, not that I’d ever tell her that.
I’m here at this state school because I couldn’t make the team at a Division One university, and I’m glad for it each and every night I lie down to sleep while hearing Mom’s voice echoing in my head: You don’t try hard enough, Lilly—you don’t want it enough. I want it more than you do, for God’s sake.
She’s not wrong.
She does want it more than I do.
Mom has never acknowledged that just because I’m good at something doesn’t mean I love it or like it. Far from it. I cheer because I can, not because it’s a passion of mine.
I’m still searching for what that passion is and hope I find it someday soon. I want to discover what my dreams are and chase them instead of being pushed into something by other people. I often wonder if my coaches could tell when I went through the motions, wonder if that’s why a few of them were always so impatient with me.
Guess I’ll never know.
“So you live at home so you can help out? Don’t you want to, I don’t know, have a life?”
I know I sound judgmental and I know I shouldn’t assume Roman doesn’t have a life, but if he lives at home because he needs to help out, that probably means he doesn’t get out much. Who knows, maybe he doesn’t even want to.
Maybe he’s one of those guys who like solitude.
Maybe he’s one of those guys who stays in his basement playing video games.
“I guess I don’t really need to have a life? I’m really focused on my grades right now.” He hesitates for a few seconds before adding, “Well, I shouldn’t say that. What I mean is I’m really focused on studying, so it’s not like I can afford any distractions. If you don’t count Aunt Myrtle.”
His laughter takes up all the space in our little corner of the party, sequestered high up on the stairs, away from all the chaos.
“No offense, but having Aunt Myrtle live with you sounds like a drag.” For a brief moment, I wonder what my problem is and why I can’t stop these thoughts in my head.
“Have you ever seen The Golden Girls?”
“Yeah, who hasn’t?”
“Aunt Myrtle is like a cross between Blanche Devereaux and Sophia. So picture that walking into the kitchen every morning—not to mention she loves giving unsolicited advice. I have no idea how my mom can stand it.”
“What about your dad? Are your parents still together, or are they divorced?”