Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I find some candles and set them around, lighting them, because candle flames are pretty, and then I start an early dinner to simmer on the stove before I finish the dishes.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I finally finish up by starting the dishwasher and hand-washing the pan from breakfast when the door to the garage swings open. Macon steps in, stopping when he sees me.
He stares, and my eyes drop momentarily to his sweaty chest and olive skin, and the way his jeans hang off his hips with no belt. He’s losing weight. I jerk my gaze back down to the pan in the sink.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Why aren’t you at work?” There’s a bite to his tone, but not like when he’s talking to his brothers. More like he’s just unpleasantly surprised.
“I, um …” My vision fogs as my heartbeat picks up pace again. “I just wanted a quiet day.” I meet his eyes. “Aracely’s sister is filling in for me.”
He pinches his brows together, looking down at the dishes. “You’re cleaning.”
Now his tone sounds like he’s confused.
“Well, I can do it,” I joke. “When I want to.”
He gives me a look, and I swear, there’s almost a smile there. He’s in and out several times over the next couple of hours, getting something to drink, washing his hands, pulling his phone off the charger.
I clean the living room and get started on the floors, lifting the corner of the couch to roll up the area rug and take it outside.
I heave it up, but I’ll never get it on my shoulders. Dragging it across the floor, I stop short when I realize someone is pulling it. Looking back, I see Macon lift up one end and put it on top of his right shoulder, and I do the same with my end. “Thanks.”
We take it outside, hanging it on the fence to air out, and I go back in to sweep and mop.
He goes upstairs, and I start sweating the moment he goes into his room. He’s going to notice his gun missing.
I think every muscle in my body is tensed for ten whole minutes as I wait for my head to roll from his wrath.
But when he comes back down, his hair is wet from the shower, and he’s wearing clean jeans, not even making eye contact with me.
I exhale.
I empty the dust pan into the garbage, and he walks to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot.
He inspects it for a moment, finally asking, “What are you cooking?”
Well, if he can’t tell, that’s not a good sign.
“I found it in a box of recipes.” I set the dustpan down and grab the notecard, showing it to him. “Ropa vieja.” I try again, properly. “Ropa … vieja?”
He eyes the card, a look passing behind his eyes, and then lifts the spoon.
“Pork?” he asks, studying the ingredients.
I nod.
“My mother used beef.”
“Oh.” I read the card again as he takes a taste. “It said any meat was fine.”
“It is.”
I watch him replace the spoon and lid, telling him, “It probably needs more salt. I’ve noticed I have blander taste buds than everyone else on this side of the tracks.”
“It’s not bad,” he mumbles, turning to the fridge. “If they want more salt, they can add it themselves.”
He grabs a soda and sets it on the counter, turning to me. I jump when he takes my face in his hands, and I watch him with wide eyes as he comes in close. But then he turns my face side to side, and I realize he’s checking my bruises. “If this ever happens again, I’m going to make an assumption about who was responsible and deal with it, you understand?”
So, if I don’t tell him, he’ll guess. I don’t want them risking anything for my sake.
I pull away and grab a plate, doling out rice and stew, handing it to Macon.
But he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
He grabs his soda, moving for the garage door, and I sit down with the plate, grabbing a fork out of the basket to eat by myself.
The next thing I know, he slams the door and walks to the stove, making himself a plate.
I smile to myself. He sits at the head of the table, and I look down from the foot, watching him as he eats.
He takes up the whole room. The whole house. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him quiet. I’ve never seen him happy. Or in love. Or scared.
Where does he hide it?
He bleeds apathy. Dispassion. Indifference. Control. Nothing else gets out. No wonder he’s sick.
“What?”
I shift in my seat, realizing I’m still staring. He doesn’t look at me as he chews, but he knows I’m watching him.
I stick my finger in my dish and lick it, tasting the gravy. “I remember hearing about you as a kid,” I start to tell him. “A man over here hit his wife, and you forced his hand into the spinning wheel of a motorcycle. Is that true?”