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)
He starts to walk away with that, like he’s said all he can and he has nothing more to offer.
“Jonathan,” I call out. “Your chip.”
“Keep it.”
“What?”
“I know how I’m doing. I don’t need a token to tell me, but maybe you do, so keep it.”
I stare down at the coin in the glow of the streetlight. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where he’s going or how long he really plans to stay.
At the moment, I don’t know much of anything, except that he’s here, in front of me, telling me everything I’ve yearned to hear for a long, long time, and I’m letting him walk away like it all means nothing.
“Jonathan,” I call out again.
He pauses and glances over his shoulder at me.
“I, uh… I’m glad you’re okay,” I say. "I saw about the accident, about what you did, helping that girl, and I just… I'm glad you're okay."
He smiles slightly, a familiar smile, one that’s filled with so much sadness. “I’m going to stick around for a while, lay low in town. I’m staying over at the Landing Inn.”
“Mrs. McKleski’s place?” I ask. “She rented to you?”
A light laugh escapes him. “She wasn’t thrilled about it, but I needed somewhere private. Took some convincing and one hell of a security deposit to get her to go along with it.”
“I bet,” I say, imagining how the woman must’ve looked when he showed up, seeking out sanctuary.
“So, that’s where I’ll be,” he says. “If you’re looking for me.”
He doesn’t wait around for a response, limping away. It’s a little over a mile from where I work to where he’s going. Memories of my mother’s voice nag at me, the angel on my shoulder, telling me I should’ve offered him a ride, but instead, I listen to the devil, sounding a hell of a lot like my father when he says, ‘Never get in a car with a stranger.’
I'm still not sure who he is right now.
Maddie’s asleep when I get to my father’s house, sprawled out on her back on the couch. My father is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee—decaf. He looks up when I walk in, eyes following me until I drop down in a chair across from him.
Crayons and papers are scattered along the tabletop, an envelope dead center of it all, addressed to ‘Breezeo’ in bright red. The return address says Maddie at Grandpa’s. It’s not sealed, but I can tell she tried, a stamp crookedly slapped in the corner, upside down.
I pick the envelope up and pull out the sloppily folded paper, gazing at it. It’s a ‘get well’ card, the words written in capitals up top, a frowny-face drawing of Breezeo below it. She drew herself beside him, smiling, handing him what looks like a bunch of yellow flowers, a short message written below that.
I saw you got sick in a accident. You should get better! And you should come back cuz Mommy says nobody always is gone. It will make you happy and me too. Love, Maddie
Sighing, I fold the paper back up, shoving it away, setting the envelope down on the table. My father’s watching me, still sipping his coffee. Waiting me out, I can tell. He probably spent all evening helping her make that, telling her how to spell all the words.
“Jonathan showed up tonight,” I say. “Wanted to talk.”
“And did you?”
I reach into my pocket for the coin he gave me, sliding it across the table to my father. He picks it up, letting out a low whistle, a peculiar look flickering across his face as he stands up. Pride. That probably shouldn’t surprise me. I shouldn’t be surprised about any of this, but I am.
Strolling across the kitchen, he sets his coffee cup in the sink before leaning back against the counter, staring at the coin. Not far from where he stands, a set of keys hang on a hook, a similar coin affixed to them, converted into a keychain. Twenty years sober.
My father spent the first few years of my life struggling with alcohol. I only have vague memories of that time. He got clean before it was too late to be a dad, he always said, and I know that’s what he’s thinking about right now.
“You’re looking lost again, kiddo,” he says as I start cleaning up the mess on the table, shoving the crayons back into the box.
“I’m feeling it,” I admit.
He doesn’t offer me any advice. I’ve never been good at listening to it. Had I taken his advice years ago, I would’ve never ended up in this situation. But I have no regrets, despite everything, and he knows that. Regardless of what happened, Maddie came out of it, and she’s worth every moment of heartache.