Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
The smoke hadn’t come from the house over the hill this morning, though Jack had watched for over an hour. Had the birds and squirrels seemed quieter too? It felt like it, but he couldn’t be sure. He marked an X on the piece of paper where he’d been keeping track, then a large, irritated question mark.
He sat in his studio with the binoculars and stared out the window at the defunct garden instead. He’d never been one for gardening though he remembered a time when it thrived. When his mom spent hours on her knees with her hands in the dirt. As a child, he’d sit at the corner of a bed of zinnias and hold as still as he could, hand outstretched, palm full of birdseed, waiting for the chipmunks to get used to him enough that they would eat from his hand.
Suddenly, for the first time, it felt essential that he plant the garden. If he could’ve willed his leg to heal in that moment, he’d have planted the whole field. He wondered if there were still seeds in the green metal box by the back door, but when he rose to check, a jolt of pain shot from his leg to his spine and he sank back down. Instead, he pulled a sheet of paper toward him and tried to remember all the things his mom had planted. He imagined delicate pea tendrils snaking up stakes and the creep of mint over potato mounds.
He stared out the window for hours. Watched the sun climb high and drop low again. Watched squirrels and chipmunks dart and flash in chittering configurations. Watched birds soar. Watched larger creatures move in the woods and smaller ones run from them.
Finally, exhausted from doing even these small things, he sank onto the couch and watched episode after episode of Secaucus Psychic. When he found himself starting to wonder if maybe spirits really did linger after death and send messages to the living he got an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
Do you believe in ghosts? he texted Charlie, even though Charlie was at work.
I don’t know. Not really, Charlie responded. Why?
So you don’t think mom and dad ever tried to send us messages from beyond the grave or anything?
There was a long pause before Charlie answered and Jack didn’t know if he was thinking or working.
Finally, when his answer came, Jack didn’t know what to make of it.
I hope not.
* * *
“Fucking mother goddamn uggh!”
Jack swung his crutch like a golf club at the dog toy that had nearly tripped him and collapsed (gently) on the couch in a massive sulk, which is where he still was twenty minutes later when Simon arrived, only now Puddles was sitting on his left foot.
“Come in!” Jack yelled.
Simon brought the smell of autumn inside with him, fresh and intoxicating and Jack wanted to punch something. Jack wanted to punch everything.
“Hey,” Simon said. He was wearing grayish-brown corduroys and a wool sweater the color of blackberries; a soft gray scarf that looked hand-knit was wrapped around his throat. His dark hair was windblown and he was smiling a little.
He looked so gorgeous and soft that Jack wanted to bury himself in him and never come up for air.
Jack held out his hand and Simon came to him without hesitation.
“Hi,” Jack said and pulled Simon down on top of him. He wrapped Simon in his arms and breathed in the scent of outdoors and wool and Simon himself.
Simon said something Jack couldn’t hear.
“Hmm?” he asked, but didn’t let go and Simon didn’t repeat himself, just nuzzled into Jack’s neck. He thought he caught just the slightest hint of sugar from Simon’s scarf and bet Simon’s grandmother had knitted it.
“What’s wrong?” Simon said low into his ear after a while.
Jack grumbled and let Simon slide out of his lap onto the couch beside him.
“Can’t stand being cooped up here anymore. It’s driving me fucking batshit.”
“You don’t have to stay inside, do you?” Simon asked.
“Well, no, but I can’t fucking do anything,” Jack groused. He decided that perhaps sharing his recent habit of standing outside the back door and obsessively stalking a smokestack might not be in this delicate relationship’s best interest.
“What would you do if you d-didn’t have a broken leg?”
Jack huffed out a breath. He realized he was sulking, realized it was likely terribly unattractive, but couldn’t quite stop.
“Walk the dogs,” he said.
Simon shrugged. “Let’s go, then.”
He got off the couch and held out a hand to Jack.
* * *
Outside, Jack sucked in huge breaths, hungry for air that he or the animals hadn’t already breathed out. He felt better already. It was chilly out, but the sky was clear. Turning leaves, dirt, wood smoke, and ozone filled his nose. Perfect.
It was extremely slow and painful going down the path from his house. By the time they got to the road, Jack was sweating and breathing hard, and he’d had to lean against Simon four or five times when his balance betrayed him. He had to stay on pavement otherwise his crutches sunk into the dirt and leaves, which curtailed their route options slightly, but Jack didn’t care. He was outside with his pack and that was all that mattered.