Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
That he gets to have her.
That we both do.
That our little hatchlings someday will too.
Our physical transition from our house to Gilly’s doesn’t take too much time.
But getting all the artsy shit together does.
And arranging it.
And setting it up on her much smaller white top kitchen island.
And of course, deciding on the proper playlist for such a new adventure.
I eventually let my little bro pick the music – under Gillybean’s insistence.
Rookie mistake.
Ain’t got a clue what any of this garbage is and am already regretting my commitment to listening to it during the duration of this project.
We’re only ten minutes into this shit.
“Ouch!” Bronny barks, fingers snatching themselves away from where he put what I’m certain is too much glue.
“Yes,” Gillybean snickers from the chair on the other side of him, “hot glue is hot.” One leg sassily crosses over the other. “I didn’t think I needed to say that.”
“Too hot,” he grumbles as he sucks on the edge of his finger.
“You hurt or you injured, bud?” I tease in between searching through the container of markers.
Bronny grunts at the hockey phrased question before grousing, “Why am I the one doin’ this?”
“Why are you the one makin’ your date a mum?” mockingly escapes at the same time I find the silver sharpie I was determined to discover.
“Yeah!” Another annoyed scoff shoots out. “Shouldn’t you be doin’ this Gilly?” His attention cuts to her. “Ya know with your…lady…fingers…or whatevs.”
One slap upside the back of his head precedes me snapping, “Be less offensive.”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to be!”
“Try better!”
“You try better!”
“You do better!”
“I didn’t do wrong! Lady fingers ain’t a bad thing!”
“Sounds bad!”
“You sound bad!”
“Whistle on the play,” Gilly gently interjects like the real life zeb she is, ignoring the sound of her nearby, vibrating cell.
Both of our mouths shut, although tension continues to linger.
Being a big brother is one thing.
This full-time guardianship is a whole other.
It’s like being in The Cup run, every minute, of every day, with no rest.
How do people do this all the goddamn time?
Am I sure I wanna do this again, someday in the future, all the fucking time with another, smaller, louder one?!
Calmly, I announce, “You need to be the one makin’ this ‘cause it’ll mean more comin’ from you.”
“Aw,” my girlfriend sweetly coos, “that’s true…” She waits until my eyes swing over to hers. “At your age.”
Bronny loudly laughs in my face. “Ha!”
“I can cancel your debit card,” is attached to me pointing a sharpie at him.
His instant surrender occurs in the form of both palms being lifted.
“You need to be the one making this because it’s a good experience for you,” our art host informs.
“Yeah, but I’m bad at it.”
“And the only way you get better at anything is pracky, little bro,” I kindly remind with a firm pat to the back. “Some shit takes a lot more pracky than others.”
He shoots me with a proud smirk. “Like catchin’ a biscuit behind your back after it enters in the top corner?”
“Exactly.”
“Such a effin’ save in the last game. The dudes were so hype about it.”
“Spilled energy drinks all over the floor that were not fun to clean up,” Gilly quietly inserts.
“I’ll admit. That shit had my heart skip a beat or two.” We share a laugh prior to me pushing a black ribbon closer to him on a chin tip downward. “Now, let’s beef up those hot glue skills, the same way I’ve stacked my save ones, aye?”
Bronny picks up the dark object, the gun, and repositions the piece he needs to add while I simply monitor closely from beside him.
“What do you think, Gillybean?” Our gazes momentarily meet. “Should he write her name is sharpie or glitter?”
“Check the bucket for a glitter sharpie.”
“Gold,” the young one mutters, tongue hanging out to the side as he tries to properly align the ribbon. “Our school colors.”
“Alright then.” Abandoning the previous marker I had is followed by me making a suggestion. “Slayer, you wanna sort through the cut outs to give him some options to add?”
“Can do,” she singingly agrees.
Silence passes between us for only a minute courtesy of me not wanting to hear anymore of some punk band called Amyl and the Sniffers. “Did you go to homecomin’ when you were in high school, Gillybean?”
“The game or the dance?”
“Oh!” Bronny interjects, carelessly letting go of the glue gun. “I gotta text Denz. See what we’re supposed to wear to that thing.”
Rather than scold his disregard of the tool, I merely do what a tendy does best.
Catch the object before it can cause damage to the situation.
“I know what we’re eatin’ ‘cause his ‘rent works for BE so he has unlimited acc’ to the drool emojs.”
“Would it physically harm you to speak English?”
“Probably,” Gillian answers on his behalf when it’s clear he wasn’t listening.
“Did you ever go to both,” I toss in her direction while securing the hot portion away from my little brother before he can complain about being burned again. “Did you ever have to make the bud version of these?”