Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Some of us require human touch once in a while.”
I do too. I just can’t seem to find anyone I want to touch. The last person I touched was Jimmy and that was two years ago. It was nice but nothing I desperately miss.
“What are you going to do?” She’s worried about me and I can’t have that. It’s not her burden to always worry about me.
“I’ll figure something out tomorrow…something that doesn’t involve me selling my wares for money because we both know I wouldn’t get much with my lack of skillz.”
The problem is that I have no idea. I’m stuck. I had a plan, managed to execute it, and then the jerk went full psycho on me in public. To make matters worse, I miss Maisie. It’s only been five days, one hundred and twenty hours and counting since I last saw her, and I already miss her desperately. Does she think about me and wonder if I abandoned her? Because that would kill me.
“What happened to Brad?” I ask Vern on our way out.
“He spoke about himself in the third person,” she says while she locks her front door. “‘That’s a yes from Brad.’ ‘Brad needs to see Veronica again.’ Like eww. Extremely creepy.” She gets no argument from me. “You want me to cancel and we can hang? Sisters before misters.”
“Sisters before misters,” I echo and we fist bump.
I glance at the curb, where a black Mercedes S-Class idles, the corporate suit waiting patiently for her behind the wheel. “Nah, you go on. Have fun. Get naked and frolic. I can figure out how to slice my own wrists.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to report him to child services?”
She’s not joking. Not even a little bit. Veronica is the one you want in the foxhole with you when stuff goes sideways. She has zero scruples when it comes to defending herself and the ones she loves. Cross her at your own peril.
“No, thanks. I’d rather not have both of us end up in jail. That’s really sweet of you, though.”
She shrugs. “The offer stands.”
The Grim Reaper’s done enough damage. I’d like to put the entire ordeal behind me as soon as possible, but the truth is I can’t stop thinking about it. My feelings are still bruised and that’s nearly impossible to accomplish.
I thought we were getting somewhere, striking up a friendship of sorts, and to be humiliated in front of the hospital staff and doctors like that was…devastating.
Then there’s Maisie.
I guess I like kids more than I was prepared to because taking care of her was more a pleasure than a job. The one takeaway from this entire cluster is that I’m looking forward to having some of my own one day.
With who, though?
Extra large pie in hand turning cold by the minute despite the humidity and heat, I walk back to my place toe dragging my Air Jordans. I’ll have to throw these out tomorrow. Every time I look at them, I’ll be reminded of you-know-who and I can’t have that.
I climb up the stairs, push open the front door––even that feels like hardship––and drop my messenger bag on the floor.
“I’m home!” I grumble rather loudly. It’s an exclamation and a threat. Approach at your own risk! I’m rarely in a bad mood and this one qualifies as a doozy.
“I’ve got a cold pizza if you’re interested.”
A peal of laughter drifts out of the living room in what is surely my mother’s voice. Like…wtf? The carefree joy feels like a personal insult. Someone laughing in my own house? No. Problem is, my mother doesn’t laugh. Not generally. Not since I’ve known her. This anomaly needs immediate investigating, so I don’t pause to drop the pizza in the kitchen. No, I march directly into the living room…
Where I find Bonnie James sitting on the carpet I bought on Etsy, legs crossed, playing with Maisie, huge smiles stretched across both of their faces.
On a personal note, I don’t have any recollection of my mother playing with me when I was a kid. Not a single memory. And yet, here she is teaching Maisie how to play patty cake.
The stench of sulfur reaches me, wafting over from the other side of the room. Metaphorically speaking or whatnot.
Sitting in the corner, lurking like an evil specter from Hell, the Grim Reaper stares back at me. Bent forward, elbows on his knees, he immediately sits up and slowly stands, his shoulders dropping. His dark dress shirt is wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, his hair messy and not in a stylish way. He looks like meatloaf left out in the heat for a week. Good. His suffering pleases me. More, as Maisie would say.
“How many souls did you steal today?”
“What?” Grim replies, expression puzzled.
“What’s going on here?” I demand to know.