Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“I hope you were still able to enjoy your dinner.” It takes me a second to realize Paul is talking to me. When I look at the rearview mirror, I find him offering a slight grin. “That was some pretty good chicken parm, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I agree, making the effort to speak because I feel sorry for him. He’s in a bad position. For some reason, he loves Mom—I can’t figure that one out. But Carter’s not making it easy for him. At least I know I’m not the only one he tends to make miserable. Right now, watching frustration play out over Paul’s face in the mirror, I don’t find any comfort.
“Now remember,” Mom teases—at least, she tries to make it sound like she’s teasing as we roll up the driveway. “We need to be careful what we eat for the next couple of weeks until the wedding rolls around. We can’t afford to gain a pound.”
“I won’t forget,” I murmur, gazing out the window toward the second floor of the house. Carter’s room overlooks the side of the house where Paul pulls in. Does he know we’re here? The lights are out up there. He hasn’t gone to sleep yet, has he? I can’t imagine why he would. It’s not even nine o’clock.
Maybe he really does feel sick. I can’t believe I care either way as we walk around to the front of the house with Paul teasing Mom over something or other—I’ve completely tuned them out, all of my thoughts focused on what’s waiting for me once I’m inside.
Please, don’t let him be in a bad mood. If he’s in a bad mood, there’s not a doubt in my mind who he’s going to take it out on. I would like just one peaceful night. Is that too much to ask? It’s bad enough I had to sit there and listen to Mom make an endless fool of herself throughout dinner while wishing the whole time that I could crawl under the table and not come back out.
I hate the thought of anybody knowing she’s my mother. Every loud, bawdy laugh, every time she squealed over something, I shrank a little further in my seat. Does she get off on being so embarrassing? No, because she thinks she’s being charming. Completely deluded.
All I know is, I can’t afford for Carter to be in a bad mood. Those photos on his phone are never far from my mind. What if he decides he’s so pissed at Mom, he’ll use them to get back at her somehow? Not that I would ever tell her. Even if I believed she would be remotely sympathetic. I would rather have my tongue run over by a truck than breathe a word of it to her. What could she do about it, anyway?
No, I get the feeling it would be enough for him to know he defiled her daughter. That would satisfy him, at least for a little while. At least until he got bored with it and decided to up the ante again.
“Less than three weeks.” Mom can’t stop gushing about the wedding as we walk into the house, where she winds her arms around Paul’s neck as soon as the door is closed. “And the whole town will be with us to celebrate. I hope I do you proud.”
“Of course you will. There’s not a doubt in my mind.” And the thing is, it sounds like he means it. He is really not a bad guy at all. I hope she’s careful with him, for his sake. All I know about his past is that his first wife left a long time ago. Mom never gave me any reason—maybe Paul didn’t tell her. Maybe Carter’s mom never gave him a reason in the first place.
If I gave birth to the antichrist, I would want to get far away from him, too.
I’m not sure how much of this lovey-dovey stuff I can handle, so I quietly excuse myself after thanking Paul for dinner, then slowly make my way up the stairs. Every step I climb makes my heart a little heavier. Where is he? And what kind of mood is he in? Please, don’t let him take it out on me. At this rate, I’m pretty sure that’s a pointless prayer. I’m pretty sure he looks for reasons to be mad at me.
His bedroom door is closed, the light is still out. There’s no sound coming from under the door.
And there’s a simple reason for that, one which I discover as soon as I’ve opened my bedroom door.
“Took you long enough to get home,” he murmurs, sitting on my bed with his back against the headboard, shoes off, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Like he belongs here.