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)
“It’s very easy to make from scratch, actually. This is really my mom’s recipe.”
Funny how easily that came out of my mouth. She’s not somebody I talk about ever, not if I can help it. “Trust me. If it was difficult, she wouldn’t have made it.”
She doesn’t say a word while I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asks in a soft voice.
“No—I mean, if we had blocks of cheese, I would ask you to grate them, but the pre-shredded stuff will be fine. Just don’t report me to any food influencers or whatever. I’d be crucified.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I glance her way, and she grins. “You don’t talk about your mom. I’ve been curious, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me asking.”
She’s not wrong. I kind of wish I’d never started this in the first place. But we’ve already shared a lot, even if I’m not sure that’s always a good thing. It can feel good to share. If anything, it takes more energy to avoid shit than to talk about it.
“There’s really not that much to say. She left when I was a kid.” I can only offer a half-hearted shrug. “She was always more interested in herself than she was in me or Dad.”
It’s only when she winces that it hits me. I could be describing her mom. She doesn’t say anything, though, only lowering her gaze and chewing her lip.
“I don’t think she ever wanted to be a mom,” I muse, going to the stove again to dump macaroni in the boiling water and stir it around. Once that’s done, I measure out my milk and add a couple of eggs before beating them together.
“Where is she now?” she asks.
“I don’t have a clue. But she probably did me a favor,” I conclude, and there’s no bitterness behind it. No anger. It’s the simple truth. “I’m probably better off. Dad did a pretty good job, or at least the best he could.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. I mean, not like I knew her or anything, but I know how it feels to have a mom who probably should never have been a mom in the first place.”
The water starts to boil over, and I give it a stir. If anything, it’s a way to avoid her sad gaze. “Do you think that’s true? Really?”
“Oh, come on. We both know it is. I’m not looking for sympathy,” she’s quick to add before I can even think it. “But you see how she is. You know, the night in the pool, the night I told you about?” I look her way, nodding. “She pretty much brushed it off. I went home in tears and told her about it. I was shaking, I was crying, I even threw up.”
A whole range of emotions wash over her face, and all of them make me sad for her and pissed as fuck at Irene. Like I needed more reason to be. “She told me I was being dramatic.”
People say shit like this all the time, but I mean it. “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”
She looks appreciative when she smiles. “Thanks.”
It’s time to drain the pasta, which I do at the sink before tossing butter into the hot pan so it will melt. “She’s pretty hard on you, isn’t she?”
She barks out a laugh full of jaded bitterness. “Yeah, you could say that. Nothing’s ever good enough. I am not the daughter she pictured herself having. She wants somebody more like herself.”
A gold-digging whore with fake tits and an overly inflated self-worth? “I kind of got that feeling.”
“I’m nothing like her. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble if she was anything like Irene. “I kind of got that feeling, too,” I reply with a smirk over my shoulder.
She watches me add the pasta back to the pan with the butter, then as I pour in the milk and eggs while stirring quickly to make sure nothing scrambles on the bottom of the pot. “You know what? You asked me about my mom.” As I start stirring in the cheese, I ask, “What about your dad? I’ve never heard anything about him. Do you see him ever?”
“I haven’t seen him since I was two years old.” There’s no emotion behind it. She’s just telling me a fact.
“Oh. Am I sorry to hear that, or am I glad to hear it?”
“I don’t really feel any way about it, personally.” But her sleeves are pulled down over her fists, and she looks like she’s trying to shrink into herself. That’s never a good sign. “I mean, he was gone before I turned two. I don’t remember him. I could walk past him every single day, and I would never know.”