Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 56295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Oh crap, here you go, Nix.” Emmy slides under the car beside me, not caring that she’s getting dirt and oil all over her clothes. Rory, on the other hand, is busy taking pictures of herself with the Camaro in the background. Sometimes I wonder if she’s not related to my sister. A girly-girl through and through, whereas Leigh has her moments when she doesn’t mind getting dressed up, but she prefers to stay in sweats while curled up on the couch.
“Thanks, buttercup. You two getting your arguing out now so you won’t do it to your mom tonight?” It’s Saturday, a day I’d usually be at the shop, but when Leigh mentioned she was working today, I finagled a few things around so I could hang with them. It’s not that the girls can’t stay home alone at this age, but why should they if I can help out? Plus, it’s no big deal to hang out with the two beauties who look so much like their mother it socks you in the gut, reminding me of the time when Leigh was a teenager herself.
“I suppose. It depends on Rory. Why do girls go stupid when it comes to boys and being popular? It’s so dumb. I wish Fif were here,” Emmy says, using my sister’s nickname. A name Rory came up with when she tried to say Ophelia’s name for the first time as a toddler.
“Fif was just here. Why don’t you FaceTime her? You know she’ll always answer your calls.” If Emmy is bringing up the boy issue, it’s about time Rosaleigh has a talk with her. If not, it’ll be me doing the talking with Rory, along with whatever boy she brings over.
“It’s not the same. Mom is always tired, Fif is away more than she’s home, and Rory’s always emo over something. The only cool person lately is you.” I hand Emmy the wrench, nodding at the bolt she’ll need to loosen to drain the oil into the pan. I scoot out of her way, letting her do the dirty work that Rory said she wanted to. Another point in Emmy’s book, the girl calling it like she is, not that I care. At least Rory still wants to hang out with me instead of with friends who are up to no good.
“I hear you, kiddo. Your mom’s doing the best she can with the circumstances you three were dealt.” It was hard not to notice the way Leigh was practically trying to climb her way inside me the other night, the weight of the world landing on her shoulders.
“It still sucks. I hate my dad. How could he do this to us, to just leave and not even look back?” I don’t say anything, letting her get out the words she so badly needs to say to someone who is big enough to shoulder the burden. “Mom does it all. Rory tries to help, you know, but it’s not the same. We can see how slim money gets, no matter how much the grands take us to help give her a reprieve. It’s mom wearing the same thing, never buying anything for herself, not even the wine she loves so much, and her birthday is coming up. Do you know what she told us?”
“What’s that, buttercup?” The two of us watch as the oil drains from the car into the pan, waiting for it to be done so she can put the bolt back on and get to filling it with fresh oil.
“That we’re not to spend a penny of our allowance or money we got from our birthdays or Christmas on her birthday. Blasphemy.” Any other kid would say bullshit; not Emmy or Rory, raised around people who cuss, yet they don’t, not around adults at least.
“Shit, I guess we better tell Ya-Ya to get things ready, then. How about you and Rory come up with a few ideas on what to get her, text me the list or the links. We’ll get her squared away.” I’ve already planned a few tricks up my sleeve, including getting Ophelia to work her magic in the shopping department as well as getting her ass home. Rosaleigh and the girls have gone through a lot of firsts without Douchebag David around. Emmy’s, then Rory’s birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Now it’s Leigh’s first birthday as a single parent, and it won’t be one where she’s sitting at home alone after the girls have gone to bed, savoring the bottle of wine I brought over earlier this week. She thought I didn’t see how she slowly took small sips, not letting me pour her more than half a glass, saying she was tired and wouldn’t be able to wake up the next day if she drank too much. Little does she know it makes me want to spoil her and the girls that much more.