Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Really? Well, I don’t remember all that. All I remember is that she was smokin’ hot.”
“I thought you stopped watching by then?”
“I might have caught a couple episodes.” He laughs. “She was hot.”
“Still is. Saw a photo of her the other day. But, anyway, that’s just TV,” I concede. “Uncle Jessie’s wife doesn’t really count as spotting an actual wife in the wild, so your point is still well taken.”
“Well, tell me, then. You’ve observed the species, right?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve spotted a genuine wife scurrying in the bushes a time or two.”
“Well, enlighten me. Does your mom nag the shit out of your dad or what?”
“No. Never. My mom’s the coolest woman who ever lived—super happy and energetic and just sort of like, ‘If you’re not happy, then get yourself happy, motherfucker, and stop bitching.’”
“Does your mom actually use the words ‘motherfucker’ and ‘bitching’?”
“No, not unless she’s really mad—usually at Keane.” I laugh. “She’s much more likely to use words like ‘honey’ and ‘complaining’—but she’d say both in a really ‘motherfucker’ tone.”
Josh looks absolutely mesmerized right now. “Did your mom stay home with all you kids when you were little?”
“Yeah. But she always helped decorate people’s houses on the side. At first it was just her friends, and then it expanded to her friends’ friends. Nowadays, she’s got her own little interior decorating business and she absolutely loves it. In her spare time she cooks the most incredible food—the best turkey chili you’ve ever had, oh my God—oh, and her spaghetti sauce is next level, and her lasagna is to die for. I think she wishes her ancestors came from Italy instead of Sweden.” I laugh. “Oh, sorry, what was I saying? I get all excited when I talk about my mom’s food.”
“You were saying your mom doesn’t nag your dad.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. She doesn’t. She leaves him the hell alone and makes herself happy cooking incredible food and decorating people’s houses and going to her exercise classes. You should see my mom with her little five-pound weights, doing her classes at the gym. She’s such a little badass.”
He chuckles.
“Oh, and she plays Bunco with her friends, too.”
“What’s Bunco?”
“It’s this stupid dice game. It’s basically craps with wine. But I think the dice are just an excuse to get drunk. I can’t be sure of that, but that’s my strong hunch.”
Josh laughs. “I love your mom already.”
I bite my lip. I know Josh meant that comment as a throwaway—a figure of speech—but it made my heart flutter nonetheless.
“So do you cook like your mom?”
“Not really. She’s always wanted to teach me, but I’m too frickin’ lazy to learn. Dax is an awesome cook, though—he’s the one who always hangs out with Mom in the kitchen. And Colby cooks in the firehouse all the time, so he’s pretty good, too—but he only knows how to cook in quantities for ten guys.” I laugh. “Ryan’s adequate—a little better than me—but he makes the best guacamole. And Keane is freakin’ hopeless. The dude can’t boil water.”
“Well, thank God you’re at least better than Peen,” Josh says. “Or else I would have had to un-friend you.”
I grin. In one of our many conversations this past week, I told Josh a bunch of stories about my brothers, including several that showcased Keane (also known as “Peen” in our family) as the beloved fuck-up of our family.
“Hey, can I get you something to drink?” Josh asks.
“Thanks. Do you have sparkling water?”
“Club soda okay?”
“Yep, same-same. Thanks.”
Josh moves across his kitchen and pulls a couple glasses out of a cabinet. “Would you care for a little vodka in your club soda, Party Girl? I’ve got Belvedere and Absolut.”
I shrug. “Why the fuck not?”
Josh laughs. “Words to live by. Which one?”
“Surprise me. I feel like living on the edge.” I lean my butt against the counter.
“A girl after my own heart.” He grabs a bottle of Belvedere from a low cabinet. “So what do you guys call Dax?”
“Dax is actually his nickname, a contraction of David Jackson.”
“I didn’t realize that. Cool.” He fills the glasses with ice. “And Colby?”
“Cheese.”
“Well, shit. That’s not fair. You’re Jizz and Kum Shot and Baby Gravy and Keane is Peen, but Colby gets to be something as G-rated as ‘Cheese’?” He pours vodka into the glasses. “Not fair.”
“Oh, it all evens out in the end,” I say, enjoying the view of Josh’s ass as he bends over to grab something from his fridge. “No one gets off easy in my family, I assure you. We all get raked over the coals somehow, just in different ways.”
Josh closes his fridge, a bottle of something in his hands. “What about Ryan?”
“Ryan is RUM, Bacardi, Captain, Captain Morgan.”
“Oh yeah, you said that in your application.” He grins. “Ryan Ulysses Morgan.”
“That’s right.” I grin. “Sometimes, when he’s dressed up to go out—which he is a lot—he’s ‘Scion’ or ‘Pretty Boy.’ Ry is basically you if he had a much bigger budget to work with.”