Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I turn on my dad. “I said I would help tomorrow. I’ll pass out your flyers and get people to sign up, I already told you I’d help.”
“See? The pronoun you use? Your flyers, the way you said it. It is a family business. Those flyers are just as much ours as they are mine or yours.” He sighs as he faces me, a glazed donut pinched so hard between his fingers, it’s practically folded. “When’s my son gonna clean up his damned act? I’m not joking here, Anthony.”
“Rupert,” says my mom, sounding serious for the first time.
“We’re sick of watchin’ you piss your life down the drain,” he goes on, “stayin’ up all hours of the night … partying, drinking …”
“I’m not pissin’ anything down any drain,” I retort, starting to lose my temper. “Why don’t you cut me some damned slack, Dad? I work my ass off all week, looking for gigs.”
“Gigs?” He goes to take a bite of his donut, then stops. “Boy, I’ve shown you so much patience. Too much. I’m up to here with patience. I don’t see improving. Don’t see progress. I see you goin’ downhill, all the way down the hill, to the bottom. We’re still recouping our losses from your veterinarian dream. How am I—How are your mother or I supposed to—”
Then it snaps. “Why’s it that you and Mom get a do-over, after all the bad stuff you two did to each other my whole childhood, makin’ my home life hell, and now here I am, your messed-up son, and you get to, like, berate me every day of my life?”
“It’s called accountability, son.”
“I don’t want any of your stupid donuts,” I blurt out. My mom says something soft I don’t hear, likely to herself, sounding sad. “I just want to take a shower and … and get to my next job today.”
There is no job today.
But he doesn’t have to know that.
And I guess it doesn’t matter. “I don’t like bein’ hard on you,” he says, his whole tone changing. He does this, too—hot and cold, every time he decides to give a shit about me. “I want you to do better, Anthony. If I’d gaven up on you, I wouldn’t be pushin’ you to help out with the business.”
“Given up.” When my dad looks at me funny, not following, I just sigh. “I’ll go over the selling points for tomorrow. All five.” He grumbles something at that, then finally digs in to the donuts.
“You alright?” asks my mom quietly.
I must be showing something on my face. “Congrats on your, uh … your word game, Mom. You could just as well be playin’ some Harvard grad, don’t go sellin’ yourself short.”
“Oh, Harvard grads don’t have time for silly games. They all have classes to attend and papers to write and … and jobs. I think.” She gives me one of her bubbly-eyed, hopeful smiles dripping with sympathy for me that always breaks my damned heart. “Is that a new jacket? It looks nice.”
I glance down at it, forgetting I’m holding it at all. “Nah, it’s … it’s not mine.”
“Whose is it, then?”
Bridger beneath me on the floor of the church, his face, heavy breaths, eyes burning and furious. Was he furious? Am I recalling that part wrong? Why the fuck do I have this jacket?
“Satan’s,” I answer before finally making it down the hall.
I don’t know why I bothered to shower at all. By the time it’s noon, I’m already sweating again, heading down Main Street with this jacket still folded over an arm like I’m a butler or some shit.
I don’t think a lick about all that stuff my dad said.
Refuse to let it get to me like it always does.
I focus on my only task today: getting this damned jacket back to its owner. Since Cody’s location is always a guess, I decide to go for Trey, passing Wicker street and strolling to the clinic. Inside, I find Carla working the front desk, who helpfully lets me know that Trey just stepped out for lunch. “Need me to look at something?” she asks in a funny voice. “Bored outta my damned mind. I mean, I won’t be able to tell you much ‘til Trey or Dr. Emory come back, but I’ll check out a weird mole on your back if you want me to.”
“I don’t have a weird—” I huff at her. “What good’s a clinic if neither of the doctors are even here?”
“Trey’s not a doctor,” she tells me sweetly.
I lean forward against the counter. “Carly. Ma’am. Miss.”
“It’s Carla, but you can call me Carly if you like, baby. I’m just a few years older than you. It isn’t weird.”
I ignore her flirting. I always do. “Can you tell me where Trey went for lunch?”
“You were awfully funny at the bachelor show thing.” She sits up and starts twirling a pen around her fingers. “It was staged, right? Your whole fumbling, clumsy, everything-going-wrong act? The girls and I totally thought it was staged.”