Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
On replay, my brain picks up a major plot point. “Dads?”
Her amusement drops. “Oh…yeah. Didn’t I say?” She chews on her bottom lip.
I’m actually not that surprised. Dora’s pretty reserved about her personal life, less likely to put it all out there than Zoe. Although Zoe, I suspect, has her own well of secrets too.
“Mnnno. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered that detail. You’ve called them ‘the parents,’ or sometimes ‘the rents.’ You’ve mentioned that your dad is a DEA agent. But that’s about it.”
She sighs. “My other dad’s a high school art teacher.” She stuffs her hands into the back pockets of her jeans to stop from fidgeting.
“Hey, I think that’s really cool. It’s not a big deal.”
She shifts on her feet, her shoulders soften. “It was when I was g-growing up.”
She’s not exactly comfortable discussing it so I drop the subject. “And what about this birthday that you also never mentioned.”
Her mood immediately brightens. “Yeah, well, ’cause, c’mon, can you imagine what’ll happen when Zoe finds out? I’m going on the record now, Alice. No male strippers. I mean it. Please, please, please.” She presses her palms together, a supplicating look on her face.
That elicits another grin. “Can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”
My door swings open. Zoe sticks her head in. “Coffee run. You hookers coming?”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Dora jumps up and down screaming. “I’m driving!”
Ten minutes later the four of us are standing in the parking lot, staring at Dora’s brand-new mint green Fiat 500. I’m smiling. Dora’s beaming, petting the hood. Blake is hiding her chuckles behind her hand, her gold medical bracelet glimmering in the sunlight. And Zoe just looks…bewildered.
“It’s not a car, it’s a Skittle on wheels,” she mutters out of the side of her mouth.
“Isn’t it effing awesome?!” Dora shouts.
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Effing? Oh, Lord.”
“Shotgun,” Blake calls out.
“I guess I’ll ride on the hood,” Zoe grumbles.
“You’ll make a beautiful hood ornament,” I tease.
Smirking, Zoe walks to the head of the car and sits on the end of the hood. Her hands go to her waist. She tucks her bent arms so the elbows point backwards and arches her back. “Let’s go.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Dora tells her.
“Some of us aren’t the size of a garden gnome, Dora,” Zoe fires back.
“I’m five feet three inches, thank you very much. Hardly a g-garden gnome. And size doesn’t matter. Bernadette is beautiful.”
Zoe’s eyes snap open wide. “You did not name the car.” She turns to Blake and whines, “Blakey, she named the car.”
“I heard.”
Zoe’s attention returns to Dora and a stare-down happens, which Dora loses when her lips begin to twitch into a smile.
“Get in the car, Zoe,” Blake orders, putting an end to all the shenanigans.
We stuff Zoe in the back seat and laugh our asses off when her knees touch her forehead.
“Judging by your sad coma, I take it he hasn’t apologized?” As usual, the Slow Drip is packed––a minor miracle we managed to snag the corner table by the window. Zoe’s voice still manages to rise above the din of the crowd.
My gaze climbs up and runs into Zoe’s hard, unblinking hazel stare. One perfectly groomed brow hitches up.
“Well?”
I take a sip of my steaming hot mocha and my tongue smarts. Okay, fine, I’m stalling, deciding how much to spill and not because I don’t trust them. I absolutely do. It’s because Zoe’s basically a loaded handgun. You have to be extremely careful where you aim her or you could unleash havoc.
I was so worked up over Reagan’s failed attempt to patch the rift between us that I told the girls everything. And they couldn’t have been any more awesome––ordered pizza, listened to me bitch about it for hours. All the earmarks of true friendship. I’ve never been a sharer before. Hence, I’m only beginning to understand how effortless it can be with the right people. How it all boils down to trust.
Something I assumed I shared with Reagan.
“Nope,” I take no pleasure in admitting. The p pops out of my mouth hard.
Am I still mad? You betcha. I’m more than mad––I’m done. I deserve someone who doesn’t belittle and embarrass me in public. But most of all, I deserve someone who wants me.
“Did he crawl on his cowardly belly till it bled?”
“That’s gross,” Blake comments. She’s only voicing what we’re all thinking.
“Nope.”
“Men are swamp garbage.” Zoe sits back, arms crossed, offended on my behalf. Go, girl power.
“Not all of them––” Dora quietly argues.
Tea cradled in her hands, Blake pulls her lips away from the edge of the cup to speak. “I’m with Dora on this one.”
“My dads aren’t,” Dora blurts out. The words peter out, as if she immediately regrets the admission. Doesn’t matter. She might as well have dropped a very loud mic.
Zoe blinks, her face morphing from one expression to the next. You can literally see it on her face, her brain working to accept this information. “Wait…wait…wait,” she mutters each time her confusion-filled gaze circles around the table. “Did you say…dads?”