Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
Confident smile.
I ring the doorbell and gaze through the glass front door.
A few beads of sweat work their way to the surface of my armpits. I tell myself it’s the heat, but it’s only spring here in Atlanta. It’s probably my concussion. Epilepsy can be a bitch—so can a life without health insurance.
A tall man, maybe in his thirties, struts toward the door, wearing a kind, boyish smile, faded gray sweatpants, and a black tee. Their son or son-in-law, I assume. Before opening the door, he scratches the back of his head and yawns like he just woke up. His dark hair is only slightly longer than the five o’clock shadow covering half his face.
“Good morning. You must be Emersyn?” He breaks my name into its three punctuated syllables. It’s a little amusing.
“Yes. Emersyn Clarke.” I return a half-smile with a slight squint, trying to read him.
He offers an easy nod and steps aside. “Please, come in.”
“Thanks.” I slide my feet out of my Birkenstock knockoffs. “Are you the son? Son-in-law?” Stray hairs brush my face, so I tuck them behind my ear on one side.
Eyes narrowed, he purses his lips into a tiny grin and slants his head to the side as if I’m not speaking English. Maybe I slurred my words. Is my brain okay?
“Or …” I wrinkle my nose. “A family friend? None of the above? I’ll just shut up now, and you can get Zach. I texted him that I was running late, so I hope he’s still here.”
He gives me a hesitant laugh as confusion deepens along his brow. “Um … I’m Zach.”
My eyes widen as my lips part, but I have no words yet.
“I got your name from the Mumfords,” he says.
Ever so slowly, I nod. The Mumfords, a sweet couple in their seventies, said they gave my name to “friends” of theirs. And for some reason, my head painted a picture of another old couple because elderly people only have elderly friends. Right?
Wrong.
“I …” I clear my throat. “I made an assumption.” My face sours into a cringe. “An incorrect assumption. This is a … little embarrassing. I thought you were …”
“Old?”
With a nervous laugh, I nod. “My bad.” I rub my temples for a few seconds.
“You feeling okay? If not, we can do this another day.”
“No.” I drop my hands and force a smile. “I’m fine. There was an incident at my bank. Someone had a medical emergency. By the time the ambulance arrived, and things settled down, I knew I wasn’t going to make it here on time. And I hate running late. So I’m fighting a little headache from the stress.” Half-truth. I should get partial credit for not completely lying.
“Not like an armed robbery or anything, I hope.”
“What?” I squint. “Oh. No. Just uh … a customer passed out. They’re fine. I assume.” Does he sense how flustered I am? My mouth moves. Words spill from my lips; however, I’m not sure they’re the right ones.
I need this job.
I need some sleep.
I need my brain to cooperate for once. Just this once.
“Well, the Mumfords rave about you, so I’m glad you made it.”
“They’re good people.”
“Just old,” Zach says with a slight grin, once again, eliciting a nervous laugh from me.
“Older than me. And uh … clearly you too.”
“I’ll have you pop into the powder room and wash your hands. Then you can meet my wife. After that, I’ll show you around.”
Oh great … a germaphobe. It’s not what I need right now. Germaphobe equals pain in the ass. I follow him around the corner to the powder room. I’ve worked for a few others like him. It’s not my preferred working environment, but I can play the OCD part when I’m desperate for money … which happens to be right now.
After I do a surgical scrub with the door open so he can witness my attention to detail, he leads me into a sunroom. And …
Oh my god …
It’s the Amazon. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been in homes with a fair number of plants, but this is next level. In the middle, there’s a woman settled into a basic gray, oversized recliner. A vibrantly colored patchwork quilt covers her elevated legs. She applies lip balm and adjusts the floral scarf around her head as we approach.
“Welcome to the jungle,” Zach says. “This is my wife, Suzanne. Babe, this is Emersyn Clarke.” Zach squeezes her foot, and she playfully bats his hand away with a tiny kick.
My gaze flits between Zach's warm smile and Suzanne’s impish grin.
“Nice to meet you, Emersyn. I’d shake your hand, but it will cause Zach to panic. He’s afraid I might get sick and die.” She laughs. “Newsflash. I’m already sick and dying.”
Okay …
It’s not that I don’t have a good sense of humor. After all, I’m homeless with a neurological disorder and a pile of past-due student loans and medical bills, and I haven’t slit my wrists. However, I don’t know if it’s appropriate to laugh at Suzanne’s joke.