Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
"Something smells amazing," he says, and I watch the shift in Faye immediately. As much as she claims to not like strangers, she has to stop herself from smiling back at him.
He winks in my direction, telling me he noticed it too, and I see the challenge in his eyes as if he's planning to make the woman like him come hell or high water.
"Simple fajitas," I explain. "You'll need to thank Faye. I was going to make salads."
He scrunched his nose up as he lifts a hand to his flat stomach. "I'd wither away."
She scoffs as if she proved a point, but I'm frozen in place, remembering the way those muscles lining his abdomen flexed every time I lifted off him last night.
I swallow and turn back to the fridge. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Water would be great," he says, and I feel like both sets of eyes in the room are drilling into my back when I open the refrigerator door.
"Faye?"
"Whiskey," she says, pulling a chuckle from Eddie, but the woman isn't joking.
She drinks a healthy pour before bed every night. When I told him earlier that she takes her medicine at dinner, the whiskey is what I was referencing.
"Oh, she's serious," he says in a conspiratorial tone when Faye leaves the room to carry a dish to the dining room table.
I hold up the bottle between us. "She says it's the only thing keeping her alive."
"Let me help you," he says when Faye putters back into the room and begins to pick up the plate with warmed tortillas on it.
"Fine," she says with another wave of her hand. "Do what you wish."
He gives me a sly smile before leaving the room.
Before long, the three of us settle around the dining room table, and I can't count the number of meals I've had here. Coming together as a family was always important to my mother, so we ate nearly every meal besides breakfast here. Even when it's only Faye and me, we eat at the table. It would be strange to do it anywhere else.
I do my best to keep my eyes off the chair beside me. It was where Sadie always sat, although it had been years since she came into the house for anything other than seeking out something to pawn or sell for drugs.
I chance a look in Eddie's direction, finding him watching me, and as strong as I've tried to be, the sad look on his face as if he can hear every thought in my head threatens that clog of emotions to lodge in my throat.
"I'd like the recipe for the chicken if you have it," Eddie says, distracting Faye when I have to lift the napkin from my lap to dab at my watering eyes.
"Chicken," Faye says as if he's an idiot. "Just chicken."
"There has to be seasoning on it," he counters, trying to keep her distracted.
"Yes," she says but doesn't explain further.
We eat the rest of the meal in silence, both of us watching each time Faye lifts her glass of whiskey to her lips as if she's sipping water rather than ninety-proof alcohol.
Before long, Faye stands, nodding in his direction before patting my hand and leaving the room, carrying her plate to the kitchen.
"I take it that's her medicine?"
I huff a laugh. "That's it."
I wait until I hear her climbing the stairs before speaking again.
"I reached out to my brothers. They'll both be here for dinner on Saturday."
"That fast?"
I dip my head, moving food around my plate but not feeling hungry enough to eat anymore.
His plate is empty, making me wonder if we offered him enough to keep him full through the night. But he's a grown man, and he knows where the kitchen is if he gets hungry.
I feel hateful for even thinking that, and mentally I blame it on exhaustion, and maybe part of me sort of hates that he didn't argue with me when I told him last night didn't matter, not that I did it because I thought it would lead anywhere.
He stands when I do, grabbing more than just his plate from the table when he follows me into the kitchen. We set about clearing the table, packing leftovers for the fridge and doing dishes, me washing him rinsing and drying as if it's the most natural thing to do.
I'm grateful that he doesn't immediately disappear after we're done, opting instead to follow me into the den. It takes out a little of this morning's sting.
"This room is so different from the ones at the front of the house," he says, walking toward the bookcase and running his finger along the selection there.
I read mostly on my tablet these days. The books on the shelf were my parents’.
"William does a lot of hosting here when he's not in DC," I explain. "They have to be more formal. This room has always been the room we spent time in as a family."