Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“True.”
“Justin was ready to punch him when he showed up yesterday, out of the blue, to take photos at the studio. We signed on to do the photo shoot, but we made it clear that Zero isn’t bending over backward to accommodate him. He has to work around us. We don’t have a choice with the water. We’re doing that photo shoot next week…or the week after.” He tapped his chin as if to jog his memory. “I’ll probably forget on purpose. And if they want me to actually drink it, they’ll have to send it to me. I’ll never buy it.”
“I will. I’ll buy a case.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.” He leaned in to nip my bottom lip. “See? You are nice.”
“No, I’m not. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t have to. I’ve seen you in action. When Parker and I finished his lesson the other day, I spotted Penny and Lullah chasing after you in the backyard. You let her tackle you and wrap a boa around your neck. It was sweet.”
I snorted. “Nah, that’s not sweet. It’s just a dad thing.”
“Then you’re a great dad.”
His matter-of-fact tone didn’t invite room for discussion, but I felt the need to set him straight. I wasn’t worthy of the compliment.
“I heard a saying once that you’re only as happy as your least happy kid. I think that’s true. And it’s probably also true that if you’re part of the reason that kid isn’t happy, you might be a crappy parent.”
Johnny glared at me. “If you’re talking about yourself…that’s fucking stupid. Your kids are happy and very well adjusted. You’re projecting guilt for no good reason. It’s like you want to beat yourself up. Is that some religious remnant from your youth? You’re divorced and gay so you must be a monster? Fuckin’ bullshit.”
I gaped in surprise. “Um…thanks?”
“You’re welcome. Quit fishing for compliments,” he chided.
“I wasn’t. We should drop this, but—” I released a long rush of air and stared at the striped chair in the corner of the room before meeting his gaze. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Does Parker still stutter when he’s with you?”
“No,” he replied quickly. “Almost never. But we talk about things he’s interested in. Once he gets going, he can’t get the words out fast enough.”
“Like what?” I whispered, holding my breath.
“Legos, space, season two of Discovery…that kind of stuff.” Johnny set his hand on my chin. “Does he stutter with you?”
I swallowed around a lump in my throat. “Sometimes. And I don’t know why. He also doesn’t talk to me much either.”
Our drive this morning was an example. I’d dropped my loquacious daughter off first and had spent the fifteen-minute drive to Parker’s school engaged in a one-way conversation.
“How are your guitar lessons going?” I’d asked.
“Fine.”
“Did you learn a song?”
“A couple.”
I’d waited for details, but they didn’t come. So I’d tried again. “Do any of your friends play bass or drums? You could start a band at junior high.”
“I d-don’t t-think so.” He crossed his arms and stared out the window.
Maybe I should have kept asking questions, but it felt like that wasn’t what he wanted. So I let it go. Probably another mistake.
I gave Johnny a brief rundown, hoping he might have some insight I was obviously lacking.
Johnny propped his head on his hand and gave me a serious look. “Let me just start by saying, I don’t know shit about parenting, but if I had to guess…he doesn’t know how to connect with you either, and it makes him nervous. He’s a perfectionist like you. No joke. The kid hates to get a chord wrong. It’s laborious. I respect that level of effort, but I have to tell him over and over to let it fly.”
“And does he?”
“No, he gets uptight and nervous, and I spend five or ten minutes talking about Star Wars to get him back in the game.”
“Oh.”
“Look, don’t get mad, but if you really want to know what I think, the problem is…you think it’s about you.”
I frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is. You’re saying, ‘What am I doing incorrectly?’ and ‘Why can’t I get through to him?’ when the real question should be, ‘How are you?’ ”
“I ask that daily!” I insisted irritably.
Johnny shrugged. “You ask it wrong.”
“Grr.”
“I’m kidding…sort of. Hey, he’s just a kid trying to figure his own shit out. This is just a thought, so take it at face value, but Parker might benefit from seeing that you’re not perfect.”
“I never said I was perfect.”
“No, but like I’ve told you before…you put on a good superhero act. Teenagers have to deal with a fuckton of sensory overload, and hormones don’t help. He doesn’t think the way you do. I bet you anything that he thinks you’re perfect and that you expect the same of him.”
I was truly taken aback. “That’s not true at all.”