Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Still, I find myself enjoying this time of morning on my back deck. Twilight starts just after five a.m., and I’m on the deck, coffee in hand, ready for the sunrise by five thirty. It’s not a quiet time of morning as the birds are quite noisy.
They don’t come around my deck anymore. Once the bird shit was scrubbed clean, there was no way I was going to encourage them back.
But each morning, I put out the peanuts Tilden left behind for the chipmunks. If I’m not on the deck, the squirrels will pilfer them first. They’re afraid of me, though, and bolt as soon as I step out or if I even approach the sliding glass door.
There’s a single chipmunk, however, that’s bold. I can set the peanuts on the rail and sit in a chair ten feet away, and he’s not afraid in the slightest.
Over the last two days, I’ve started experimenting with his bravery by putting the nuts closer and closer to me on the deck. This morning, I’m sitting in my chair, still as a statue, with a single peanut resting on the top of one shoe to see what he does. I’ve got one on the rail and then a trail of three more across the deck leading to me.
I hear the chip-trill of the little striped rodent before I see him. If I were to turn my head to the left, I’d see him scampering toward the deck from under the bush where I think his burrow must be, because that’s where he returns to after stuffing his cheeks full. Of course, I don’t know if it’s an actual “he,” but I’ve taken to calling him Chip, a typical male name, and it’s a he until proven otherwise.
But I don’t look his way. I keep my eyes pinned on the back of my yard where a line of trees separates me from my neighbor, Tilden Marshall. I left her bed three nights ago and haven’t seen her since.
Thought about her plenty, though.
Maybe even, at times, obsessively.
Being with her—fucking her—scraped something away. I felt raw, as if my soul had been shredded. When I walked out of her house, I felt like an open wound, seeping pain and bleeding misery.
Every day since?
I don’t know what it is I feel, but it sure doesn’t hurt as much. How could it, really, when all I can think about is how fucking good she felt?
I chastise myself—for about the hundredth time—to not assign more meaning to what was essentially nothing more than good sex after a lengthy period of abstinence. I can get good sex anywhere, as a matter of fact.
Movement catches my attention, and I turn my head very slowly to find Chip on the rail, a peanut in his little paws. Sitting on his hind legs, he tears away at the shell, and to my surprise, eats the kernel inside. Normally he shoves the food in and runs, and it’s amazing how much he can pack in those expandable cheeks.
When he finishes, he jumps down from the rail to the deck and in succession moves to each peanut and tucks them into his cheeks. He eyes the one on my shoe, and I hold absolutely still to see what he’ll do. His tail twitches, and he trills. I wonder if he’s questioning me or calling out to friends.
Regardless, he turns away and bolts off the deck, tearing across the yard and under the bush.
Sighing, I bend over and pluck the peanut off my shoe, holding it loosely while I sip my coffee. My gaze moves back to the trees, and I think about Tilden again.
This isn’t how I thought my life was going to be when I walked away from the Titans. I thought I’d come here and hide, away from the spotlight and the pressure to perform. There’d be no expectations from anyone that I needed to get over shit.
Mostly, I’d be alone because alone was what felt right.
Not best, but right.
I wasn’t destined to die in that plane crash but rather slammed into a never-ending penance because the fates or God or whoever is calling the shots didn’t let me have my chance to make amends.
It would be hard for most people to understand the depths of my angst over this. Growing up in an environment where I received no love or nurturing, my hockey family became my world. The friendships I forged with my teammates went beyond the normal bonds people make with one another. I would have taken a bullet for Kyle had an opportunity presented itself, and he would have done the same for me.
He’d have never touched an ex-girlfriend of mine if he were given the opportunity. He would have stayed loyal to me.
The fact that I can’t unburden this secret and at least get the chance at forgiveness has fucked up my head so bad, I can’t distinguish between the pain of losing my family in that crash and the fact that I’m the worst piece of shit for betraying a family member who died when the plane went down.