Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Is there, though?
All I know is I’m boneless. Literally.
Why should I leave this warm bed for another day where half the teachers stare at me like I’m a hand grenade and the others try to be my best friend?
I don’t have the energy. The rest of the world sucks.
“I’m sick and tired,” I finally say.
“Is that what I should say when I call the school?”
“Sure.” I’m past caring, and no lecture about my future slipping away will bring me around.
With a heavy sigh, Dad drags himself across the room. I feel the bed sink with his weight as he sits.
“This is hard for me, too, little man. She was my mom. But I’m still going to work every day for you and your mother.”
“I’m not grown like you, Dad. I don’t have to run a whole company.”
“Someday, you will. And being a grown-up doesn’t make it hurt any less.” The edge in his voice surprises me.
“I miss her like hell. She used to drive me to school when I was your age,” he says with a wry smile.
“I know.” My throat tightens, filled with hot lead.
My parents manage to bring me my homework for a solid week.
Every day becomes the same conversation, but my will to stay in bed is always stronger than his will to get me out of bed.
Eventually, I’m placed in a temporary homeschool program so absences don’t count.
In fairness, Dad tries hard to help me find some joy that none of the therapists can.
He takes me to playgrounds and amusement parks.
Mom makes me help her cook. A near disaster every time since I was born without the chef gene, but I try.
We sail the Puget Sound, visit the zoo, take road trips to California when their schedule allows, and wherever else they can think of.
Nothing matters.
It won’t bring Grandmom back or help me relate to people like less of a little psycho.
Then one day, Dad walks into my room with a big box. I watch, somewhat annoyed, as he opens it and pulls out a white square.
“What’s this? More homework?” I ask.
“It is. But not from your teacher.”
“Huh?” I blink as he pulls out another small box of what looks like paints. “I don’t get it.”
“You will, Miles. Painting was an old hobby of mine through college. Your grandmother paid for a lot of classes when I was young, but I haven’t had time to paint in a good long while. I was thinking of going outside and trying to paint a tree. It’s been a long time. I’m not sure how good I’ll be. Do you want to come with?”
I hate that I’m intrigued.
Will the canvas help empty the black abyss inside my head?
I’d never been much of a writer, but I wouldn’t have to write for this.
What if all the dark and red swirling through my thoughts could stop? What if I could clear my head and be myself again?
I feign disinterest as I follow my father outside and get set up.
The first few pictures we work on are just blobs of color.
Then, slowly, my mother’s favorite rosebush takes shape.
Present
Painting saved my life once.
With a brush, I could create new worlds. Better places without any pain or sadness or a hundred million dollars going up in flames during the depths of a recession.
And until the holes opened in Dad’s memory, painting was this special thing we shared.
Until I let down the man who showed me this heavenly world existed.
Until I let a snake of a woman upend everything.
And now, there’s another woman crowding my head so much I can’t even find my muse without her.
“Fuck,” I mutter, not paying attention as I hoist up the canvas and hurl it across the room.
She can’t take this part of me.
Tap. Tap.
Benson again, knocking at the door so lightly I’m sure he knows I’m in a mood.
“Come!” I belt out.
He strolls in holding a white envelope, his face tight.
I don’t bother asking before I walk over and rip it out of his hands.
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see it or if I should feed it straight into the fireplace. But given her recent... token at your mother’s graveside, plus the proposal she sent to Louise, I thought you should decide, sir.”
Anger lashes my veins.
I haven’t read the return address on the envelope yet, but I know who it’s from.
“Bring me another scotch. Hell, this time bring the bottle,” I growl.
“Right away.” He takes my empty glass with him.
I sit there in grim silence, staring at the envelope burning my fingers until he returns with the drink.
What the hell does Simone want?
Is she so fucking stupid she thinks I’ll ever do business with her again?
He returns with the bottle and an extra glass. “I thought you might need more than one. You don’t have to do this, you know. We can just throw it in the fire.”