Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Luna Harrington is my bestest friend in the whole world. She’s the odd to my normal, the sweet to my salty, and the ride or die to my I’ll kill for you. She’s also a fantastic aunt to Gracie, her husband’s brother’s daughter, and that’s no easy feat because Gracie is a lot of bold, unfiltered energy packed into a tiny eight-year-old body.
“Luna? You didn’t say we were chilling with her. Should’a led with that.” Though Olivia’s mood brightens considerably, I’m left wondering how my own sister hates my existence and thinks I’m annoying but somehow finds my artist-slash-weirdo bestie to be cool and worth her time.
It doesn’t take a psychology degree to figure out that I’m a little jealous, but if Olivia sees a good role model in Luna, I’m glad for that.
We find a parking spot and walk down the path, through the tree line, and into the green opening that’s a reprieve from the city’s hustle and bustle. Pointing to a shaded area on the far side of the park, I say, “There they are.”
As if they’ve been watching for us, Gracie is suddenly running toward us, screeching at the top of her lungs, “Saaaa-man-thaaaa! You’re heeere!” Nipping at her heels is a brown, fluffy dog named Peanut Butter but who is more commonly called Nutbuster because he has a bad habit of running head-first, center mass, into his chosen target. But Luna’s brother-in-law, Kyle, never seems to teach his dog any manners. Though the dog’s questionable behavior might not be all Kyle’s fault, because I’ve met Nutbuster several times, and my professional diagnosis is that he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together.
“Hi, honey,” I greet the blonde, ponytailed little girl, opening my arms for the incoming tackle hug. She smells like sweat and sunshine, and vaguely like mangos, so I know they’ve been here long enough to have already eaten a popsicle from the vendor who sells them from his cooler-accented bicycle as he rides around the park. When I let Gracie go, I shield my crotch from Nutbuster. “And you too, Mister PB,” I add with scratches to the dog’s head. “Good boy.”
“C’mon! Aunt Luna’s been waiting on you foreverrr,” she tells me, her voice loud enough that half the park can probably hear her as she drags me toward Luna. “Hi, Olivia,” Gracie throws over her shoulder when she remembers her manners.
“Hi to you too, kid,” Olivia answers dryly. I give her a look of apology, but you can’t really blame Gracie for being excited. The park is one of her favorite places, and I’m one of her favorite people. Of course, I think Gracie meets a new favorite person just about every day. She’s overly friendly, scarily mature, and it’s always a hoot to hear what comes out of her mouth.
Luna’s perched on a small blanket in the grass with a half-painted canvas leaning up against the tree in front of her. She holds a finger up as we approach, her other hand gently layering acrylic paint to the canvas. It’s a still-life of the park, but realism isn’t Luna’s style so in her version, the trees are a vibrant fuchsia, the grass is highlighter yellow, and the turquoise pathway is dotted with black and white figures.
Used to her hyperfocus, Gracie and I giggle as we mimic Luna’s one-finger communication, doing it to each other over and over with increasing degrees of pseudo-annoyance and rapidly spreading grins, but Olivia is watching Luna with rapt attention.
“Is that supposed to be Peanut Butter?” Olivia asks a couple of minutes later. “The fur texture is perfect.” Having heard his name, the dog hops up, standing tall to put his paws on Olivia’s belly and pant for attention, which she gives happily.
Luna smiles as she pauses. “Thanks! It is this little fella.” She makes a kissy sound toward the dog. “Hey, guys,” she says, finally greeting us.
I lower to the blanket, sitting next to Luna, and Olivia follows. Gracie couldn’t sit still if she wanted to and resumes bouncing, Nutbuster doing the same, probably thinking he’s supposed to copy her.
“Hey, girl, that looks awesome. Personal, professional, or commission?” I ask.
Luna is an artist of varying specialties. We met when she did tours at the art museum, but since, she’s taken over as a manager for a large, private collection, so she’s got the classics on lock. She also does digital art for her wildly successful original graphic novel series, Alphena. But I think there’s a part of her that likes smearing paint on canvas just as much.
“Personal,” she answers. “Hey, Olivia! How’s life?”
It’s a generic question, but Olivia takes the opportunity to piss on me. “Annoying. I’ve got this one” —she throws a thumb my way— “hauling me around like I’m her latest fashion accessory, Mom pawning me off so she can get her freak on with her latest boytoy, and—"