Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 95080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Can you believe it?” Alex said when we arrived at the San Francisco International Airport to pick up my brother Evan. We parked his Toyota 4Runner and got out. “I mean, for crissakes, Trace, it’s about time Dad got mad for once. This is a big fuckin’ deal!”
“I know,” I groaned, sagging against the side of the SUV. “Hey, you got a cigarette on you?”
His eyes got big. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A cigarette,” I repeated. “Do you have one?”
“Not for you I don’t.”
“Oh, gimme the goddamn cigarette,” I snapped at him, sounding more surly than I felt.
He pulled a pack from the inside pocket of his black leather biker jacket, pulled out two cigarettes, and lit them both. He nursed them for a second, making sure both were sufficiently burning, then passed me one. When I’d been a smoker, it had been merely recreational. In college there had been clove cigarettes and pot, and a few times stronger things. I never got a taste for drugs, but I had really tried to be a smoker. It just never took. And I’d been a lightweight anyway; it was all about the menthol. My brother did not know from menthol. He would have smoked them without filters if he could have found the time to roll them himself. As it was, I nearly coughed myself to death on the Camel he gave me. I didn’t even know they made anything that full of toxins.
“Oh yeah, this is good for you,” he snarked, rolling his eyes as we made our way across the parking garage to the elevators.
I put out the cigarette before we entered the building, then stood beside him as we waited with others to go down to the terminal and the gates. I noticed a woman and a man looking at me and wondered what they must be thinking.
Aviator sunglasses were hiding my puffy, bloodshot eyes. I’d seen myself after I took a shower at the hospital. I was pale and hollow-eyed. I looked like a refugee. I had on three layers—T-shirt, heavy hoodie, and a parka. Old, faded jeans and my ancient brown brogue boots completed my outfit. I was warm, and that was important. I couldn’t seem to get my body temperature to regulate, so I needed to be piled with clothes.
The woman was still looking at me when the elevator arrived, and I noticed she and her husband had drifted back, away from us. Not huddled into a corner or anything, but damn close. Alex grabbed my arm and we got on, and when he held the door open so they could join us, the man politely informed him that they would take the next one. It was official: I was scaring people.
In the terminal I walked silently with Alex, threading through the crowd, his arm draped over my shoulder. I didn’t even know where we were going until we reached the arrivals area.
“Looks like we’re a few minutes early,” Alex said. “Want me to get you a coffee or something?”
“Tea would be good.”
“Yeah, okay, tell me what kind?” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
“Get me an Earl Grey latte.”
“Got it. I’ll be right over there. Don’t go anywhere.”
He was worried, and it was nice. Even though I grumbled about him being overprotective, it was good that he’d been with me all day in the hospital, playing cards, watching football, and eating. He’d gone out for lunch too, and as I never had both meals on a normal day, that was nice too.
The monitor updated, and seeing that my brother’s flight had landed safely, I let out a deep breath. I wasn’t a fan of people I loved being in the air. It was dumb and I knew that, air travel being safer than driving, but still. On the ground was best. Immediately, I looked toward the security check because I knew he would be one of the first out, as he always flew first class. I couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t.
Evan had graduated from Columbia with a degree in art history, but just barely—he had been so much more interested in his acting career. He’d done some theater work, but mostly he was not the kind of guy who did summer stock or Shakespeare in the Park or anything off-Broadway. My brother was definitely the guy who did commercials, then walk-ons, then bit parts, then bigger ones. He was less about the theater or his craft and more about the models and the money. He was young, only twenty-seven, and maybe when he hit sixty, he’d care about Broadway. But after a show on CBS playing a hot FBI agent, he’d moved on to HBO. He’d told Alex on the phone that he had news, so I was looking forward to hearing it. As passengers began streaming out, I looked for him. He wasn’t hard to spot.