Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
After I get Maddie settled in, sandwiches made for her and my father as they hunker down at the kitchen table with paper and crayons, a fresh chocolate cream pie sitting on the counter (don't think I didn't notice), I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ve gotta go back to work, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s starting to drizzle when I head outside. Ugh, what is it with all this rain lately? Pulling out my keys, I start off the porch when I sense movement. I turn in the direction of my car, my footsteps coming to an abrupt stop.
My heart drops right to my toes, my stomach knotting. I lose my breath in that instant, caught by surprise when I see the familiar face. Oh god. Everything in me says run… run… run… get away while you have the chance… but I can’t even move.
He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a hat on his head. A black leather jacket is draped over his shoulders, his right arm tucked into a sling. His skin is battered and bruised, but it’s him.
Jonathan Cunningham.
He’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel his gaze clawing at my skin. He doesn’t speak, looking about as tense at the moment as I feel. My insides are wound tight. My chest hurts as I inhale sharply.
“Hey,” he says after a moment of strained silence, that simple word enough to make me woozy.
“What do you want?” I ask, sparing a greeting, my tone harsher than I mean it to be.
“I just thought…” He glances past me, at the house. “I thought maybe—"
“No,” I say, that word flying from my lips.
He sighs, his chest rising and falling as he lowers his head. “Can we at least talk?”
“You want to talk.”
“Just a conversation,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just a minute of your time.”
“To talk.”
“Yes.”
So much of me wants to say no again. The bitterness that has rooted deep inside of me yearns to shut him down. But I can’t, as much as I might think I want to… I can’t say no without at least listening to him. Because this isn’t about me, regardless of how personal it all feels. It’s about that little girl inside the house, pouring her soul into a picture for a man she still thinks is a hero.
“Please?” he asks, encouraged by my silence, by the fact that I haven’t told him to leave yet. “Take pity on a banged up guy?”
“You want my pity?”
“I want anything you’re willing to offer me.”
“Look, I can’t do this right now,” I say, stepping off the porch and onto the walkway. “I’m going to be late.”
“Then afterward,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or the next day. Whenever you decide. Whenever is good for you. I’ll be there.”
I’ll be there. How many times have I yearned to hear those words? I don’t even know if he means them.
I slowly approach, pausing beside my car, a mere few feet separating the two of us. “I get off work tonight at nine. If you’ve got something to say to me, you can say it then, but for now…”
He takes a step back, nodding. “You need me to leave.”
“Please.”
I slip past him, climbing into the driver’s seat of my car, watching in the rearview mirror as he hesitates before walking away. He leaves on foot, his steps slow. I don’t know where he came from. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know what he expects from me.
I don’t know why my heart’s racing.
I don't know why I feel like crying.
I drive to work after he’s gone and get there a few minutes late, but nobody says anything about it. I’m lost in my head, distracted, wondering what he’s doing and what he could be planning to say. I’m not sure words exist that can make any of this better, but there are a few that could make things worse.
“Kennedy!”
I flinch and turn toward the sound of Bethany’s voice in the doorway to the stockroom. “What?”
“I’ve been standing here talking to you for like five minutes and you weren’t even listening.” She laughs. “Anyway, I just wanted to say goodnight.”
“Leaving early tonight?”
“More like late.”
“I thought you got off at nine?”
“I did,” she says, glancing at her phone as it starts ringing. “Well, my ride is here, so I’m out!”
Confused, I glance at the clock. It's almost nine-thirty. I lost track of time. Shoving everything aside, I clock out, avoiding conversation with Marcus. I need to get back to my father’s house before Jonathan shows up.
Halfway to my car, my footsteps falter when I spot him. He’s here. Jonathan is perched on the hood of my car in the darkened parking lot, his head lowered, the hat shielding his face from view.