Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Only when she touches a gentle hand to my arm do I realize I'm shaking, and not from the cold. "Are you alright? You seem upset. Maybe you'd like to come in for a cup of tea."
Upset? That doesn't even touch the tip of the iceberg. Don't they always say icebergs are much more enormous under the surface? There's a whole ocean of rage and loneliness and confusion churning around inside me. "It's not a big deal," I whisper, the sort of thing you say to somebody without really thinking about it. A meaningless comfort.
She sees straight through it. "Is there anything you need to talk about?" She eyes the house next door, my personal prison cell. "I hope it's not overstepping my bounds to say this, but it's just as easy to hear a fight going on over there as it was when Romero was a boy. Please, don't think I wait around, eavesdropping. There are times I can't help hearing it."
Now my face goes hot even in the cold. "I'm so embarrassed—"
"And I wasn't trying to shame you," she murmurs, wearing a gentle smile that feels almost maternal. But how would I know what that seems like? I never really had it in my life. "I was only concerned."
"It's not like that. We just... rub each other the wrong way. And he…" No, I shouldn't be doing this. She's a lovely lady but a stranger, and she doesn't need to know about our bullshit.
Maybe it's because she's a stranger that I want to tell her. The stakes are lower. Like I could say to her things I can't even tell Bianca, and it won't matter because it's not like we have a relationship.
"You made it sound like things were bad over there when he was a kid." I have to wrap my arms around myself, but it does nothing to warm me up. I'm not about to go back to the house, though—this might be my best chance to get a few words with her. "All I ever want to do is talk to him and understand him, but he keeps pushing me away. And then I saw Becky hurry off. She was crying, making me want to beat him senseless. I don't know why he has to be the way he is, and I don't know why I care."
The creases on her forehead deepen. "He's never hurt you, has he?"
"No. No, it's not like that at all. That's not the kind of guy he is. Believe me."
"I do," she murmurs in a soft voice. "Don't worry, sweetie. But it wouldn't be the first time that sort of thing passed down to the next generation."
"You're saying his father was abusive?"
Her face hardens all at once, and I'd swear it dropped another ten degrees out here. "He wasn't worth the breath it took to keep him alive."
Whoa. I can't even pretend her sudden shift doesn't startle me. She went from being a kind, elderly woman to somebody who looks and sounds like they're ready to spit nails.
Then her expression softens, and it's like I might have imagined her bitterness. "You have to understand. I contacted Joy more than once and asked if she needed help."
Joy. What a sweet name for somebody whose life doesn't seem like it was filled with much joy at all.
"I offered to let her stay here with me. I wanted her to bring Romero. She didn't want to drag me into the problem. Can you imagine? She was worried about me. I offered to give her money—Henry and I saved up a nest egg when he was alive, but she also refused. I even called the police more than once, but she always had an excuse for her injuries. I never did quite understand why she insisted on staying."
"And Romero? Was he hurt, too?" He would hate it if he knew I even hinted at this, but I need to know. I've already waited long enough to find the missing pieces of the puzzle. She's holding them in her hands. I only need to ask for them.
"I remember one time in particular," she murmurs, looking toward the house again. "His eye was swollen shut and bruises ran along his cheekbone. Joy told me he got in a fight at school, but she forgot one thing."
She turns to me, wearing a sad, weary smile. "There was nothing wrong with his hands. Not so much as a scratch on his knuckles when he shoveled my sidewalk. Whoever he fought, he wasn't the one doing the fighting."
I mean, I knew it. None of this is a surprise. There's no way he could live in a house with a monster—Becky's word—and not end up hurt. Hearing it, though? Imagining those bruises? That's different. "Why did he leave? Do you know?"