Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
I wanted to feel powerful, like a king. A man who caught a goddess. A man with the entire world in his hands.
But now I can’t go back there. There’s nothing for me there without Pixie. Even my anger has no meaning.
“Yeah, it’s the same thing over and over. Can’t do it anymore.” I stand up and the world tilts. Fuck. Did I drink last night too? I can’t remember. I don’t have the usual hangover symptoms though.
“Where you going?”
“I’ve gotta look for Pixie. I think I’m gonna scope out some motels around the area. Bed and breakfast, that type of thing. Blu gave her some money so she’s gotta be renting somewhere.”
I have no idea why I didn’t think of this before. I guess I’ve been too drunk, too broken and yeah, too fucking angry. But I’m not now. I’m thinking clearly. If I tell her that I quit that job, she’ll see that I’m not mad anymore. She’ll come back then.
“And if you find her, then what?”
“Then I’m gonna bring her here. What else, dickface?”
“Here.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “In this room. She’s gonna be so happy to see this, right? She’s gonna be so happy to know that her husband is a fucking loser who just quit his job. Oh, and correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you promise your Pixie that you would find her a new place to live? Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be stoked about this whole situation.”
I have a new job now. Construction. Roofing people’s houses all day long. It’s not an interesting job, just something to make money from and find a new home for Pixie.
Ethan’s right. I need to get my act together for when she comes back. I asked for another favor from him and specifically told him nothing related to porn or drugs. Or guns. He punched me — he punches like a girl — and hooked me up with my current job, even though I have very little experience with it. But I’m willing to learn.
I have a routine now. I go to work in the morning, come back and look for Pixie. I run through the streets, ride the subway, take the buses. I look for motels, any place that Pixie could be staying at. I also go to restaurants, book stores, anywhere that she might’ve gotten a job. She’s staying out here on her own; Blu’s money can only last so long. She must have a job. Obviously, this city is huge, so she might be anywhere and I might be looking for her in the wrong place.
After my daily search, I get back home and call her. She doesn’t pick up, of course, but I give her a play-by-play update on my day like I’ve got the most interesting life.
I called her and left her a message saying that I’d landed a new job. That I was done with the warehouse. I thought she’d understand that I wasn’t angry anymore. That I was making an effort, and she’d return my calls. But no.
Despite everything, I’m proud of her for sticking it out on her own. I always knew she could. I always knew she could do whatever she wanted. Maybe that’s why I’ve wanted to keep her close, tied to me so she doesn’t fly away.
She did anyway.
I’ve thought about hiring someone, going to the police, anything that might give me a clue, but I’ve got no money for that and she left of her own accord. There’s not much anyone can do. I harass Sky a lot, too. Never thought I’d say that because that girl is a fucking psycho. Pixie isn’t picking up her phone calls, either.
“Thanks a lot, douchebag. I haven’t talked to my friend in ages. I never should’ve told you about the treehouse.”
When I’m tired from all the running around, I go to her favorite spots. She loves anything with colors and crowds: Times Square, Union Square, Fifth Avenue. She also loves Central Park. She loves taking her shoes off and dipping her toes in the grass. Or simply lying down and looking at the sky. She loves people watching, says she’s collecting stories.
Strangely, I don’t remember her writing anything after we moved here.
She’d even stopped reading when it used to be almost impossible to tear her away from a book. It makes me uneasy. It makes me think that it’s my fault. Because of me she doesn’t write anymore.
Is that why she ran away? Because my – our – anger somehow destroyed her desire to write?
Tonight, I call her up and tell her that she’s free to do anything she wants to do.
“Pixie, you can write as many stories as you want. You don’t even have to work. I’ll pick up extra shifts. I’ll… I’ll work all day, all night so you can be the best writer you can be. Come back. Please, come back. I’ll do anything you want me to do.”