Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Hey, before you do that, I need you to pick up a couple of things from the store.”
He cringed, then looked relieved as he reached for the fridge handle again. “I’ll just order from DoorDash. My guy Jimmy’s got us.”
“You have a DoorDash guy? Like a regular one?”
He shrugged. “He usually brings my orders. I’m a good tipper so we’re friendly.”
“Okay, so that’s good, but…when was the last time you left this house?”
“I have no idea, ballbuster. Will you move your hand?”
I slid in front of the refrigerator, my back against the door so he couldn’t open it. I didn’t want him reaching for his first beer of the day at only eleven in the morning.
He had a routine, sad as it was. Every day he woke up on the couch, immediately took two Tylenol and drank half a cup of the coffee I’d left in the pot. Then a quick pee, and after that he cracked open his first canned Budweiser of the day.
The first of at least fifteen, from what I could tell. And it definitely showed—he had a thicker waistline than I’d ever seen on him. At this rate, he wouldn’t be able to return to the Mavericks even if he wanted to, though as of now, he most definitely didn’t.
“I’m particular about my groceries,” I said. “I only like certain brands, and one of the things I need is tomatoes. I don’t want Jimmy bringing bad tomatoes that’ll ruin the salad.”
He let out a groan of frustration. “Fuck salads, Luce.”
I didn’t mention that he needed more salads and a lot less beer if he ever wanted to play pro hockey again. He spent his afternoons watching old games on TV, some from decades ago and others that he played in recently. That told me his love for the game was still there, even if it was buried deep beneath his sadness right now.
“Can you just pick up these things?” I passed him the list I’d handwritten.
He took it and read, glancing up at me with a furrowed brow. “Sweetened condensed milk? I don’t even know what that is, let alone where to find it.”
“In the baking aisle. It’s for the dessert I’m making.”
Blondie brownies with ice cream and caramel had been an early morning brainstorm a few hours ago, when I was sitting out on Sawyer’s patio, a blanket wrapped around me as I sipped my morning coffee and tried to think of ways to get him to leave the house.
“That’s what the ice cream is for, too?” he asked.
He loved ice cream. I was pretty much a genius.
“Yes.”
“Breyer’s homemade vanilla only,” he read from the list, giving me a look. “Which is bullshit because it’s not homemade.”
“It’s the best, though. You’ll love it. And I’m making homemade caramel to put on the ice cream.”
He sighed heavily. “This shopping list is going to take me like an hour.”
Like he had other plans? I knew my brother, and I could get him to do what I wanted, but I had to hold back my snarky comments and make him think he was doing me a huge favor.
“I really appreciate it,” I said, stepping away from the refrigerator door. “Did Mom call you this morning?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t looked at my phone yet.”
“She left me a message earlier and said she was going to call you. While you’re at the store, I’ll call her and check in for both of us.”
That sealed the deal. I saw the moment his expression shifted from probably to definitely. My brother wasn’t a fan of phone conversations, and our mother could talk for days.
“Okay, I’ll go get your stuff.”
“Thanks. Kon said he’s bringing a bottle of wine.”
Sawyer scoffed. “Guarantee he’s never tasted wine in his life. I’ve got some good vodka he gave me for Christmas last year. He and I will get into that.”
I sighed to myself. Was getting drunk with someone else progress from getting drunk alone? If so, it wasn’t much.
I’d told Mom over the phone this morning that Sawyer was down, but I hadn’t let on how bad it really was. She’d relocated to Scottsdale to care for her sister, who had Alzheimer’s. I didn’t want her worrying about Sawyer when she already had her hands full.
Somehow, I’d figure this out. I had to. I couldn’t stay here indefinitely, and I wasn’t leaving until I knew my brother was back on his feet.
Kon’s expression when he took his first bite of the blondie brownies I’d made with ice cream and caramel drizzle said more than words ever could. Wide eyes and a slight slump of his shoulders—he was a fan.
“I love this,” he said, immediately scooping up a second bite.
He and Sawyer demolished the chicken and dumplings and mashed potatoes I’d made, both devouring two huge platefuls. Watching them enjoy food I had cooked was the best feeling I’d had in a long time. Things with Nate had been so tense, and at times, scary, that cooking was the last thing on my mind.