Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Can you come in tomorrow? I want to show you how to open.” He seems uncomfortable.
“I don’t work at all tomorrow, so I can do that.”
Dare nods.
“Ten a.m., then.”
“Okay.”
The air is charged with a different emotion now. I’m not used to feeling insecure. It’s not that I think I’m a beauty queen, but I realized long ago that I have what men want, and I’ve used that power to my advantage. But with Dare, it’s different. Sometimes I think this attraction is mutual, but other times, like right now, it feels one-sided.
“I’m going to close up once these last two clients are gone. Go home and get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
I am feeling pretty beat and I should get home to check in with Jess, so I don’t argue. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dare looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, so I don’t wait around for a response.
I notice the mailbox hanging open, the tin flap rattling in the wind, when I pull into the driveway. I grab the mail out and tuck it under my arm as I walk inside. Jess is sprawled out on the couch in his sweatpants and a dingy wife beater tank reading The Outsiders.
“Hey,” he says, not looking up from his book.
“How was school?” I toss the mail down onto the kitchen table before taking off my jacket.
He lifts a brow before meeting my eyes. “How was school? What is this, Leave it to Beaver?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just making sure you’re staying out of trouble. Did you go to detention?”
“I am, and I did,” he says, going back to his book. “Don’t trip.”
Something on the table catches my eye, and I snatch it up, seeing the words Santa Rita County Jail on the front. I flip it over, confirming my fear.
“Jess?” I ask, holding it up between my thumb and index finger. “Why?”
Jesse looks equal parts guilty and defensive. We agreed not to tell Mom where we were going, and we agreed on no contact, at least for now. She needs to know it’s different this time. Plus, I didn’t want to give her the chance to manipulate us into believing her bullshit or feeling sorry for her. Again.
“She has no one,” he says, and my heart fucking cracks wide open because his is still so pure and naïve, even after everything we’ve been through.
“Jess, we agreed…” I try to keep the anger out of my voice. I can’t fault a kid for wanting to talk to his mom.
“I know. I know.” He sits up, running both hands through his disheveled hair. “She seemed…almost normal. And we’re family. I didn’t want to turn my back on her when she’s finally making progress.”
“I get that, but this is what she does. It won’t last. It never does.”
“Probably.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t see any harm in sending her a postcard.”
“Have you been talking to her this whole time?”
“No. She tries to call my phone collect every single day. I ignored it for the first week. Tried to accept it by the second week, just to tell her to fuck off, but it wouldn’t let me. Something about our carrier not allowing it. Fuck if I know. When she was supposed to say her name, the last call said, ‘Please, Jesse. I’m going crazy in here.’”
I shake my head, furious that Crystal would do this to him, but not the least bit surprised. I’m also pissed that she knows where we are. She’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who we’re staying with in River’s Edge.
I flip the postcard back over, reading her chicken scratch handwriting. She explains how she spent the first week in the infirmary—so she could withdrawal safely, no doubt. She asks him to put money on her books for cigarettes, then goes on to ask him to write a character witness letter for the judge. What she doesn’t ask is how he’s doing. Her underage high school child, whom she knows is staying with his estranged father. Un-fucking-believable. Except it’s really not, because this is how Crystal rolls. Selfish and manipulative and always, always the victim.
I hand it to Jess, and he shakes his head as he reads it. He leans forward, reaching for his lighter. With a flick of his thumb, he lights the corner of the postcard on fire and watches it burn, turning it this way and that as the flames swallow it whole. Ash litters the table, and when it finally burns out, he drops the remaining piece into the ashtray.
“I’ll never tell you what to do,” I say, and Jess shoots me a look. “Okay, unless it involves school or your safety or your general wellbeing.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles.
“And I’ll never try to turn you against Mom, or even Henry for that matter. You make your own decisions. You can feel however you want to feel. I just want you to be careful. I hate seeing you hurt.”