Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“Yeah.” He watches me watch his fingers pick up another blackberry. “Because my memory is better than yours.”
“Never mind, I do remember,” I say and take a swig of water.
Farrow smiles wide like it’s too late. I’ve already lost whatever lead I had. And he answers my dad’s earlier question with, “He’s Maximoff. Pushing himself too hard is basically his middle name.”
My dad leans forward on his barstool, looking at me. “Funny because I didn’t give you a middle name.”
“Really?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Could’ve sworn I was named Maximoff Fucking Hale.”
My dad cringes at my features. “How about Maximoff Paler-Than-My-Ass Hale? Are you even taking anything?”
Uncle Ryke pulses the blender. “Toradol should fucking help, but you should talk to your doctor first.” Green liquid churns in the glass.
I don’t have a primary care physician, and that unsaid thing noticeably tenses Farrow beside me. He closes the blackberry container.
Toradol. “Is that a narcotic?” I ask.
“No,” Ryke says and pours his shake into a to-go thermos.
“He’s on some decently strong NSAIDs,” Farrow answers.
“Then stop moving around,” my dad snaps at me, his voice sharp and harsh. “You shouldn’t even be here.” He points at the door. “Bed. Rest—”
“I have things to do,” I interject. Which…is a lie. I have nothing to do now that I don’t have a job, but I can’t just lounge.
I want to move.
To swim.
To run.
And I have an ultra marathon to train for—I promised Sullivan that I’d race with her in Chile. I’m not missing it for anything. Not even a broken collarbone. And that—that is the last thing I need to surface in front of my dad and uncle. They’ll bombard me as soon as the word ultra leaves my mouth.
My dad’s brows scrunch at me. “Did your mom and I not teach you the art of being a couch potato? Jesus Christ, I’ve truly failed as a parent.”
Ryke almost laughs, but he turns more to me. This time, I don’t look away. And he tells me, “You’ve got time to rehab. Your dad is right. With these first few fucking weeks, you need to take it easy.”
I freeze even more than I already am. Ryke is offering advice like this is just another day of my life. Not the day after his daughter…I shake my head, confused.
Almost wishing he hated me. “You’re not upset?” I ask.
His brows furrow. “Upset?”
Farrow wraps an arm around my side. He knows. He knows that I’m beating myself up about this, and I can’t help it. I can’t stop the fucking guilt from attacking me.
“Winona was in that car with us,” I tell him. “She has a gash—”
“It’ll fucking heal,” Ryke says, scowling hard at me. Now he’s pissed.
“It’ll scar—”
“Don’t do this to yourself, bud,” my dad interjects.
Ryke adds, “You couldn’t have protected her from a car crash. That’s not on you. Don’t ever put that fucking weight on yourself.”
I breathe.
Farrow watches my expression, and I think he knew I needed them. He’s been urging me to see Ryke, maybe because my uncle is the only one who could come close to absolving me.
But I’ll always wonder if we could’ve prevented the crash someway. Somehow. Stayed in the alley, waited out the storm. If Charlie or Farrow had driven from the get-go. If we pulled over sooner. Anything, anything different and maybe they’d be okay.
It takes a lot of energy just to leave Farrow in the kitchen with my uncle and dad. He’d tell you he can handle the probing questions and sharp sarcasm from my dad, but I’d much rather be there to take half the heat.
Still, I have a goal today.
One that has to be done alone.
Walking down the second-floor hallway, I come to a stop at a door-less room. My fifteen-year-old rapidly growing brother is sprawled on his bed. He’s already six-foot-one, and the day before the auction, he texted me a selfie of pieces of toilet paper stuck to his shaving nicks. His message: Razor vs. Man.
He’s growing up, and he’s going to fuck-up. And as his older brother, I’m trying to figure out how to minimize that damage and protect him.
I have to.
In his bedroom, Xander has on bulky headphones and flips through a thick fantasy novel.
I knock on the doorframe.
He glances up and slides his headphones to his neck. His straight brown hair is tucked behind his ears. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming over.” His amber eyes light up like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
My stomach twists because the conversation I’m about to have—it’s not going to be pleasant. And I’ve been sprinting around inside my head, trying to determine the best way to phrase this stuff without it sounding accusatory.
But it is an accusation, any way I turn it. He did something wrong…he’s doing something wrong.