Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“It is,” I say innocently. “Never drank a single drop until this very moment.”
That draws a genuine laugh from Nia.
Dad clinks his glass with mine. “Happy birthday, Cass.”
“Happy birthday, Cassie,” my sisters echo.
“Happy birthday, Cassandra,” Nia adds in.
Dinner is tasty, as it always is when Nia cooks. Afterward, Dad hands me an envelope that serves as my birthday present. Inside is a gift card, which is pretty much what I expected. It’s always a gift card.
“Figured this way you could go and pick something out for yourself,” Dad tells me. Which is what he says every year.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” But it’s hard to ignore the pang of unhappiness that tugs at my insides. I know it’s far easier to please first-graders than your college-senior daughter, but sometimes it would be nice if Dad made an actual effort.
The girls beg me to spend the night, and although I hadn’t been planning on it, I can’t say no to those faces. I text Tate to let him know I won’t be coming by later.
Tate: No birthday sex??!!
Me: Sadly not. My sisters don’t want me to leave.
Tate: I’ll allow it, but I’m not happy.
I know he’s kidding, which is confirmed when he sends a follow-up.
Tate: Have fun. See you tomorrow?
Me: For sure.
Hell, now I’m almost regretting agreeing to spend the night here, because just seeing his name on my phone gets me going. Sexually. Because that’s what my world has been reduced to. Sex. And sex. And then more sex. I’m voracious about it now. I crave it all the damn time.
I freaking love sex.
Or maybe it’s Tate.
Of course it’s Tate. You’re falling for him.
Wait, what? Where the hell did that come from? I chide my mind for even suggesting such blasphemy. I can’t, under any circumstances, allow myself to fall in love with the guy. I’m leaving in three weeks. He’s staying behind. Not only that, but we agreed to a fling. We even discussed the terms. Therefore, I’m not allowed to engage my heart in this. Only my body.
Luckily, my body is very much in love with Tate’s.
“Let me help you with those,” I say when I spot Nia carrying in plates from the dining room.
“Non, non. It’s fine.”
“You cooked dinner for me,” I protest. “The least I can do is help with the cleanup.”
Nia once again dismisses me. “Go spend time with the girls. Their bedtime is soon.”
I press my lips together, fighting a wave of irritation. Despite my best effort, the words biting at my tongue cannot be reined in.
“Why don’t you like me?”
Her expression turns to shock. “What?”
“Why don’t you like me?” I repeat.
“Cassandra …” She places the dirty dishes in the sink and slowly steps toward me. She rubs the bridge of her nose. Uneasy. “I—”
“Cass!” Dad calls from the living room. “Come check this out!”
“Pierre is swimming!” yells Roxy.
Relief sweeps through me. I’m immensely grateful for the interruption, because voicing the question made me realize I don’t want to know the answer.
Why do we do that, anyway? Ask questions with glaringly obvious answers. Painful answers. I guess human beings really are gluttons for punishment. It’s like Peyton, whenever she gets ghosted by a guy. She always wants to know the reason. Wants to know why. And I always counter with, Why does it matter? Either way he’s not interested in you. But still she persists, Yes, but I want to know WHY.
Nia doesn’t like me. That much is clear.
So, really, the why doesn’t matter.
* * *
Tate: Make sure not to throw out the newspaper today.
The message comes in as I’m pulling into Grandma’s driveway the next morning. Okay. Intriguing.
I hop out of the Rover and head into the house to have a look. Grandma wakes up ungodly early in the mornings, and if she’d already gone out to grab the newspaper, she would’ve tossed the Avalon Bee on the hall table and only brought her paper of choice—The Wall Street Journal—into the kitchen with her.
Sure enough, in the hall I find the abandoned Saturday edition of the Bee. Curious, I unfold it, then burst out laughing. Oh my God. This is incredible.
“Cassie?” comes my mother’s voice.
Still giggling over the paper, I carry it into the kitchen, where Mom is drinking her coffee at the table.
She gives me a wry smile. “What’s so funny?”
“This.” I hold up the newspaper to show her the front page, which features a half-page photograph of the Bartlett family. Gavin, Gemma, and Tate (missed opportunity for Gate) pose in front of Bartlett Marine, with Gavin in the middle, his broad grin flying off the page. Tate’s dad is definitely larger than life, and the headline reflects this:
MR. CONGENIALITY OF THE BAY
Mom leans forward to study the article, her eyes instantly narrowing. “What’s this?”
“Tate’s dad.” Another giggle pops out. “The Bee did a profile on him. It was all he could talk about the first time I met him. He’s so proud of it.”