Total pages in book: 196
Estimated words: 186555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 933(@200wpm)___ 746(@250wpm)___ 622(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 933(@200wpm)___ 746(@250wpm)___ 622(@300wpm)
How the hell had he known what time it was? I’d been watching him; he hadn’t looked at the heavy watch on his left wrist or at his phone. I didn’t even know where his phone was. It wasn’t on the table like mine.
I smiled as I closed up my notebook and clipped my pen to the front cover. I picked up another cookie and bit off half. “Thank you so much for the help,” I said as I pushed the chair back.
He grunted, still not sounding like it was what he would have picked to do today. But he had.
“Hi, Aurora,” another voice spoke up suddenly.
Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed Amos making his way into the kitchen, a vase full of flowers in his hands, his big T-shirt covering everything until halfway down the baggy basketball shorts he had on. “Hey. How are you?”
“Fine.” He came to a stop beside the chair his dad was in. I didn’t miss the quick glance he shot the man before focusing back on me. “How are you?” he asked slowly, like he felt awkward.
It just made me like him more. I grinned. “Fine. Your dad was just helping me again.” I eyed the mixed bouquet of pink and purple flowers. “Those are pretty.”
Amos held them out. “They’re for you. From my mom and dad. Thank you for taking me to the hospital.”
“Oh.” I took the vase and was surprised at how heavy it was. “Thank you so much. They’re beautiful. You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Rhodes.”
I didn’t see Mr. Rhodes’s face or Amos’s because I was too busy looking at the arrangement, but it was the teenage boy who said, “No, my other dad.”
“Ohhh.” I glanced up at him. Where were they? I wondered. His mom and other dad? “Tell them I said thank you. I love them. And they’re very welcome for taking you. I’d say any time, but I hope not.”
Neither one of them said anything.
But I remembered what Clara had told me earlier as I set the vase down on my thighs and peered at the teenager. “I got something for you too, actually.” I picked up the crystal from the table and held it out to him. “You might have been too out of it to remember, but I called my friend before we went to the hospital, and anyway, she sent this. She said it promotes healing and to put it on your left. She hopes you feel better.”
His eyebrows rose steadily with each word out of my mouth, but he ended it with a nod, not unwrapping it or anything. I figured he’d do it in the privacy of his room, I guess. “Hey, did you know I work with Jackie?” I asked him.
Amos nodded, still holding his gift and testing the weight.
“I didn’t know that you knew each other. Clara said you’re best friends.” I paused.
“Yeah,” he answered in that quiet voice of his before slipping the gift into his pocket. “We play together. Music.”
“Really?” I asked. She hadn’t said a word about music, but then again, we only talked about work when we chatted. Twice we’d talked about movies, but that was the extent of our relationship. She just always seemed really hesitant around me, and I hadn’t figured out why.
“She plays guitar too,” he added, almost shyly.
“I had no idea.”
“We play in the garage when I’m not in trouble.” He shot his dad a pointed look that the older man didn’t see, and I had to force myself to keep a straight face so he wouldn’t catch on either.
“He plays the blues,” Mr. Rhodes threw in. “But he doesn’t like to play in front of other people.”
“Dad,” the kid scoffed, his cheeks going straight to red.
I tried to give him an encouraging smile. “It’s hard to play in front of other people, thinking of how they’re judging you. But the best thing to do is not care what they think or if you mess up. Everybody messes up. Every time. No one is ever flawless, and most people are tone deaf and can’t hear a flat note if you poked them with it.”
The kid shrugged, obviously still embarrassed his dad had ratted him out, but I thought it was cute.
Mr. Rhodes wouldn’t have said anything if it didn’t please him to a point.
“Exactly, Am. Who gives a shit what other people think?” Mr. Rhodes egged him on, surprising me again.
“You’re always correcting me every time you come hear us,” he muttered, face still flamed.
I bit back a smile. “I know a lot of musicians, and honestly, most of them—not all of them—but most of them like it when people are honest and correct them. They’d rather know they’re doing something wrong, so that they can make a correction and not keep making the same mistake over and over again. That’s how everyone gets better, but I know it sucks. That’s why I’m here bothering your dad. Because I’m tired of being wrong at work.”