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It’s my thing, right?
I’m an asshole. You can’t rely on a shithead like me.
Which is why I can’t go on Sunday.
CHAPTER17
NYLAH
Carson’s tongue. His mouth. His body… his fire…
It’s burned right through me, and my helpless, charred remains have been obsessed with the guy ever since. I mean, he was already taking over a huge chunk of my brain space, but now I’m all consumed, and Sunday feels like a million years away.
I’ve replayed every detail from Fledgling and the bike ride—and those kisses!—over and over in my mind.
I love the way he always looks so unimpressed, but I could tell he was interested in most of the stuff I was saying. He’s just putting on a big ol’ front. I’m not sure how, but he’ll open up to me eventually, right?
And he said he’d run, or hobble, a marathon with me. Holy shit! That is the sweetest thing. He made this monumental task that I’ve been mourning feel like this doable goal in my life.
The Boston Marathon.
Time to put that bitch back on my bucket list.
“What are you smiling about?” Dad asks the second he walks into the kitchen.
“Me? Nothing.” I go back to slicing carrots the way Mom asked me to.
“She’s been doing it ever since she got here,” Mom tells him.
Shit, have I?
I quickly pull my lips into line while my parents get distracted with their hugging/kissing routine, which goes on way too long if you ask me. I mean, seriously. They’re old now. They should not be pawing each other like that.
Oh gross, Dad just squeezed her ass.
I pop a carrot into my mouth and crunch through it, grateful when Eli walks into the kitchen and starts gagging. “You guys! This is a public area of the house! That’s disgusting!”
“Hey!” Mom snaps her fingers at him. “This is my kitchen, and I can do whatever I want in this domain. You don’t like it, you can walk your butt back into the dining room. And set the table while you’re in there.”
He grunts the way only a fourteen-year-old boy can and stalks out of the room.
“Ami, baby!” Mom calls up the stairs.
“Yes, Mom!” my little sister shouts back.
“Help your brother set the table.”
“But it’s not my turn!”
“Amina.” Dad’s rich voice backs Mom up, and within seconds, my ten-year-old sister is running down the stairs.
Dad blocks her way with a growl and she giggles, jumping off the last three steps in a flying leap and getting caught and spun around by her favorite person on the planet.
“Hey, Daddy.”
“How’s my girl?”
“Good!”