Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
After they view the room, Dad goes to use the restroom while Mom checks out our walk-in closet.
“So what do you think?” I ask when she comes out.
She regards me seriously. “It’s a beautiful house, honey.”
“But?” I prompt when she doesn’t go on.
She sighs and walks over to sit down on the bed. “Your dad and I are still worried about you, that’s all.”
“Mom—” I start in an exasperated tone, but she holds up her hand and pats the bed next to her.
I walk over to sit down next to her, and she says in a low voice, “Agent Ryson came up to your father in the park yesterday morning. I don’t know what he told him, but your dad’s blood pressure was through the roof all day. I tried to pry, but he wouldn’t tell me anything other than that he’s worried for you.”
I stare at her, an icy vise squeezing my heart. Why was the FBI agent there? What did he tell my dad? If it’s anything like what Ryson had accosted me with on my wedding day, it’s a wonder Dad didn’t have another heart attack right then and there.
Could the FBI know something about Monica’s stepfather?
My lungs cease functioning as the thought flits through my mind. I must’ve visibly paled too, because Mom frowns and reaches over to clasp my hand. “Are you okay, honey?”
“Yes, I…” I force myself to resume breathing. “I’m fine.” My voice is a bit too high-pitched, so I throw in a smile to make it more convincing. “Sorry, I’m just worried about Dad. How’s his blood pressure today?”
Mom sighs and lets go of my hand. “Better. Not perfect, but better. I do wish he’d tell me what Agent Ryson said, though.”
“Right.” I manage to sound almost normal. “I’ll ask Dad about it today.”
“I think it’s better if you don’t.” Glancing at the bathroom door, she lowers her voice further. “Whatever it was, it was obviously stressful, and I don’t want him dwelling on it.”
“You got it, Mom,” I say and get up to smile at Dad as he comes out of the bathroom. “Now let’s go sample those pancakes.”
As we eat, I observe Peter interacting with my parents. Though I know he’d much rather be alone with me, he’s again polite and respectful… downright kind in his manner. Going up and down the stairs seems to have aggravated my dad’s arthritis, so Peter helps him with his walker—and does it so casually and deftly that my dad forgets to take offense.
At first, my parents are wary and reserved, but as the meal goes on, they seem to warm up to Peter—even my dad, despite whatever Ryson must’ve told him. It helps that Peter takes charge of the conversation, barraging my parents with questions about how they met and what I was like as a child instead of waiting for them to pry into his murky past.
“Sara was such a perfect baby, you wouldn’t believe,” Mom tells Peter, beaming at me. “Slept all through the night, ate when she was supposed to, almost never cried. And never got sick, either, though she was born small—just under six pounds. We were so terrified—because of our age, you know—but she quickly put all our fears to rest. It was like she knew we weren’t the typical young parents who could take the strain, and she made sure everything would go by the book. That’s silly, obviously—she was just a baby—but that’s the impression everyone had.”
“I could believe that,” Peter says, regarding me with such warmth that I blush and have to look away.
Besides steering the conversation to my parents’ favorite topics, Peter shows his attentiveness in a variety of little ways. Mom gets her chamomile tea without asking, and Dad’s pancakes are served with a fresh bowl of fruit and whipped cream in addition to the homemade strawberry jam. I don’t know where Peter sniffed out this specific preference of my dad, but my parents clearly appreciate it.
“You’re an excellent cook,” Mom tells him, and he gives her a big, warm smile, his eyes crinkling in genuine pleasure.
Watching him like this, I begin to wonder whether Peter is really doing this just for me. Is it possible that some part of him craves this too? That because he’s never had parents of his own, he’s enjoying being a part of our family? Because if he’s pretending, he’s doing a great job.
I, for one, am convinced that he’s starting to like my parents—and that despite everything, they might eventually like him back.
As we’re wrapping up the meal, my parents finally get around to questioning us—about work and all sorts of typical parent stuff.
“So have you decided what you’re going to be doing?” Mom asks Peter, and he nods, telling them all about the training studio he’s planning to start.