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)
“And what about fucking my—”
“As long as you don’t exert the limb to the point of pain you can...put weight on it.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Jack called after him. Then muttered, “Dick.”
“Making friends and spreading joy wherever you go as usual?” Charlie said, walking into the room as the doctor was leaving.
“Doctors, am I right?”
“Not usually. Ready?”
“I just have to get stuff from the nurse.”
He examined his bared right calf. It looked smaller, shrunken. But at the moment he couldn’t care. All he felt was relief that he was back on his feet. That he could feel like himself again.
And he really hadn’t been kidding about that whole screwing Simon up against a wall thing.
Or over the back of the couch.
Or over the side of the bed.
* * *
I have a surprise for you, Jack texted Simon.
What!?
Jack chuckled. Simon was so adorable.
If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise and all that. You’ll see tonight.
Pout.
* * *
His shin ached and looked a bit swollen, and the skin that had been under the cast felt weirdly sensitive, but taking a shower without a plastic bag swaddling his cast and an ache in his hip from holding his leg up—not to mention the inevitable moment of almost losing his balance and falling on his ass—was heaven. He stood under the spray until the water began to run cold, then rubbed his leg gently with a towel as the nurse had recommended, her stern rejoinder about why he shouldn’t scrub at the skin no matter how much he wanted to running through his head: Because your skin will slough off and it’ll hurt, tough guy, so just don’t.
He shuddered and rubbed even more gently.
The sensation of putting even a little bit of weight on his right leg after so long favoring it was strange, but Jack walked around the house slowly, gingerly, patting a dog here and tidying a pile of mail there.
The clutter annoyed him and he began to make plans to put everything in the cabin to rights. It had been too long since he’d cleaned, too long since he’d dusted. Too long since...everything.
At the bottom of a pile of mail and papers shoved in a corner was a large envelope. It had sat there for months, unopened, because Jack didn’t need to open it to know what it was. Page proofs of his and Davis’ book that would be out in a month. Their fourth together, completed before Davis’ betrayal when Jack had imagined things would go on as they were forever: collaboration, publication, celebration.
But the wheels of publishing turned slowly enough to fossilize joy in bitterness, hope in fury.
Fury was perhaps too active a descriptor for the fugue state Jack had wandered around in for months before his fall.
Now, though, floor solid beneath both feet, Jack probed at the wound gingerly. It was still there, but it had diminished. It wasn’t a raging storm any longer. It was a dull ache that felt more like foolishness and disappointment.
Jack slid a finger under the lip of the envelope and breathed in the particular scent of photo paper and ink.
A Lynx Slinks in the Bronx slid onto the table, a Post-it note from his editor on top: Looks great! Can’t wait until it’s out in the world!
Each line and color was familiar even all these months later. Jack had spent hours reading about the Canada lynx. He’d asked everyone he ran into if they’d seen one and listened to story after story from old men claiming they had. The accuracy of their sloping backs, hind legs longer than fore, had made his initial drawings look unrealistic until he’d figured out the angle he needed to draw them from to capture their size and grace.
Fuck, he missed it. All of it. In his horror at not being able to draw, he’d forgotten about the rest of it. The research, the chatting with people about what he was working on to get ideas. Seeing the world through the lens of his current project. Texting Davis ideas and getting his in return.
He flipped through the pages to find his favorite drawing. The one he’d spent days on to get the lynx’s expression just right. It was beautiful, from the black tufts of fur on her ears to the little stub of her gray tail.
“I drew that,” he whispered.
Then he took the pages and placed each one on the floor and sat on the couch. First Mayonnaise wandered over and plopped down on a page. That got Pickles’ attention, who stretched out on another. When Pirate next walked through the room, she stopped, circled around, and came back to settle on a third page.
Rat saw that something was happening and started prancing around in circles trying to figure out what it was before placing herself directly on Pickles’ legs, getting a tail in the face and a lazy hiss for her troubles. At the sound, Bernard came in from the kitchen where he’d been hopefully sitting next to the food dishes and, seeing the animal-studded living room floor, participated by flopping down in the middle, with no attention to the papers whatsoever. His wagging tail pushed one of the pages so close to the fire that Jack tensed to get up and rescue it. Then he realized it didn’t matter if it burned.