Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Oh God, oh God. Don’t ever stop.”
He chuckles. “How did it go?”
“Good, I think. I went deaf from pain fifteen minutes into the meeting.”
He hums and takes my other hand and does the same. “That feels so good I might cry.”
“Please don’t cry.”
“Why does it bother you so much?” I say into the darkness.
A loaded minute of silence passes. “I’ve seen too many women cry.”
“At the shelters?” With my free hand, I come into contact with his forearm and pet him. He shivers and sighs, the sound distinct in the absence of sight. “Your mother?”
He hums again. “I’m sorry…How old were you when it started?”
Another eternal minute of silence passes. “I don’t remember a time when he didn’t beat her. Never on the face, though. He didn’t want the neighbors or the people at church knowing.”
My heart breaks, carving out an even bigger spot for him than was already there. It feels like only a matter of time before he owns all of it. “Did he hit you, too?”
“Only when I got between them.”
“And your brother?”
“My brother was arrested for hitting his girlfriend last year…he’s cut from the same mold.”
I squint into the darkness, the faint light from the open doorway casting shadows on his face, the only sound his soft exhale when I run my fingers through his hair. It feels like there’s less of it for some reason.
“You’re not. And don’t you dare argue with me.” An indescribable rage comes over me. This is the best man I know that I’m not directly related to. He’s such a good soul it’s almost hard to believe anyone like him could exist. And that he believes the worst of himself makes me so mad.
“I’ve seen enough of you to know better. Is she still with him? Is that why you don’t see them?”
He inches closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that I can feel his soft breath on my skin.
“She’ll never leave him…” He pauses and I know it’s because he’s considering how much to tell me. “The summer before my senior year, they got into it. He was going at her with a closed fist. I ripped him off and started beating on him so badly he had to be hospitalized. When the cops showed up because she called them, she told them it was all my fault. She had me arrested.”
I gasp, my hand stalling. I squeeze his forearm. I desperately want to hold him, comfort him the same way he’s comforted me. But is that allowed? What if he pulls away? I’m too much of a coward to find out.
“The charges were later dropped…I never went back home. I ended up living with my football coach senior year until I left for school.”
“Grant…”
My hand skates up his forearm. It glides over his shoulder and travels up the side of his neck to reach the sharp line of his jaw, pulsing with old pain and resentment. Cupping his face, I run my thumb over his full bottom lip and feel him place a kiss on the pad.
“Sleep…you need to sleep,” he whispers.
Still groggy from a migraine hangover, I walk into the brightly lit kitchen and squint. Sam is standing next to Grant, who’s seated at the table, leaning against him with his elbow resting on Grant’s shoulder. Their attention both directed down at the iPad Grant’s holding.
“That’s a nubbie,” Sam tells Grant while he points to what is probably his Fortnite video game. “You can tell by the skin.”
A bunch of take-out containers litter the kitchen table. My stomach suddenly rumbles and they both look up at me. That’s when it sinks in––Sam’s hair.
I blink and blink but it’s not getting any better. For a moment I wonder if the migraine messed with my eyesight. “What happened to your head?”
My gaze cuts to Grant. His hair is short, a little longer on top, stylish and hip. I did feel less of it last night. It blends perfectly with his trim beard. It suits him. In other words, hot.
“Hi, Mom. Do you feel better?” Sam chirps with a big smile on his face.
“Somewhat.” My attention slides to the man responsible for this hair crisis. “Why does my son have a Mohawk, or a pompadour, or whateveryoucallit?”
“It’s a bro-flow,” my son answers for him.
“Yeahno, it’s a Mohawk.” I aim my dismay at the man presently staring back at me with wide blue eyes. “Why do you have a cute haircut and my son a Mohawk?”
“Javier said this is the cool haircut,” Sam butts in again. Javier needs to have his eyes checked.
“You think my hair is cute?”
The blond looks confused. He runs a hand through his hair. Did Javier stab him in the brain by mistake?
“Really? You’re going to quibble with me over words? Fine. Hot, super manly, sexy haircut. Why does yours look that good and––”