Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“You know it,” I say, then sip my drink.
We chitchat as he heads to The Automat, then he says, “I’m here. I have to go.”
“Love you, Nolan.”
“Love you too, Jaybird,” he says, and we hang up.
I don’t want to ever regret not saying I love you. I don’t want to imagine how it would feel if I never had the chance to again.
I sit in the quiet for a bit, petting the cat more than usual, maybe needing more affection than usual too.
Big brown eyes are working overtime on me tonight.
I grab a handful of popcorn from the red bowl, then sink onto my dad’s cushy couch. His dog sits at my feet, staring at me with a forlorn puppy-dog gaze, melting my resolve in seconds flat.
This Min Pin has my number.
“How do they do it? How do dogs just work me over every time?” I ask my dad as I toss a kernel for his pooch.
Snickerdoodle leaps for it and catches it midair. “Good boy,” my dad calls out. Then to me, he says, “You’re a sucker for eyes.”
Damn. Way to see inside my soul. “Guilty as charged.”
My heart still feels a little tender tonight for my family. Are Beck’s parents around? Is he close with them too?
I could ask him next time I see him at the studio, but that’d be weird. I’ll just hope he has people in his life who matter to him. “Thanks for having me over,” I tell my dad.
With a warm smile, he laughs. “You did grow up here, Jay. It’s your home too.”
“I know. I’m glad,” I say softly.
His casted foot rests on the coffee table, his hand on the remote. “Now, give my third son another piece of popcorn before I turn on the show. He’s hungry.”
I toss a piece to Snickerdoodle and scratch the dog between those big bat ears as he chomps the treat. “You love your third son the most.”
“Well, he doesn’t talk back,” my dad deadpans.
“I’m twenty-seven! I don’t talk back.”
Dad raises a gotcha brow.
I roll my eyes and then grab another handful of the snack.
He points the remote at the TV. “Ready? Or are you going to chat more and ruin my show?”
“Oh my God, the abuse,” I tease as Snickerdoodle hops onto the couch between us. The three of us settle in to watch an episode of Privilege, a family dynasty drama on LGO that has “I want an Emmy” written all over it.
It’s downright addictive.
Until . . .
No fucking way.
The heroine strips off her shirt. Her dude tears off his jeans, and he’s down to boxers.
It’s business time.
I have nothing against bodies on TV, male or female. But rules are rules. I jump up from the couch. “Goodbye,” I say, and I hightail it out of the living room.
Laughing, Dad calls out, “You still can’t handle sex scenes.”
“Not with my dad!” I shout from the kitchen. As I wait, I return a text from my writer friend Hazel, who’s coming to town in October for a book event. We make plans for golf and pinball, and thirty seconds later, Dad calls me back. “Coast is clear.”
I return, and we finish the show, my eyes unscathed.
Once it ends, I gather the empty popcorn bowl and head to the kitchen to wash the dishes from our takeout dinner. Dad follows, crutching his way behind me. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, trying to shoo me away.
“I want to, and you won’t win this battle.” I point to the kitchen table. “Sit.”
He grumbles but complies, his dog trotting gamely along, plunking down at his feet. I’m finished a few minutes later, so I dry my hands and join him.
“It’s nice to watch TV with you,” I say.
Dad is a softie too. “It is, kid. It really is.”
With both of us squishy and the mood relaxed, I take the chance to bring up an old subject in a gentle way. “But I do want you to think about slowing down,” I say. “You worked so hard when we were kids. I want to see you enjoy yourself.”
He studies me, taking his time before he answers. “Would you think it was crazy if I enjoyed my work? Does that sound like someone you know?” he asks gently, but his point is clear.
Pot. Kettle.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I won’t be playing football at sixty-two,” I say.
He pats my hand. “Bet you’ll be doing something with football. There’s nothing you’ve loved like being active. Did you know you crawled at five months? You walked at nine months? You ran around the block at age two?”
He’s only told me these stories ten thousand times. “And I threw my first touchdown pass at six.”
He smiles proudly. “Yup. You love the sport.” He takes a beat and meets my gaze. “I love Mister Cookie.”