Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Have a great time.” I clear the agony from my throat. “Send me pictures of the Rockies.”
“You … you haven’t seen the Rockies. I forget. Now I feel like an asshole for calling you about it. I feel like Jolene.”
“Don’t. I’m happy for you. And you are not Jolene.”
Again, a pause settles between us. I don’t have anything magical to say to make her feel better. But I don’t want to end the call, and I don’t think she does either.
“Milo, I want to be happy for you too, but …”
I stare at the windowless walls of my brother’s home. “No buts. You can be happy for me. My life could be much worse.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. Indie knows I compare every situation in my life to my brother’s current situation, even if she doesn’t know the details. I hope she never knows those details. Nobody should have to share headspace with the unfortunate incidents of my past.
“Have a great time. You’ll be missed this Christmas,” I say.
“Pfft …”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Milo …”
I clear my throat. “I gotta go.”
Another long pause.
“Do you still love me, Milo?”
I grunt a laugh. “Yes, Indiana. That won’t ever change.”
“I love you too,” she says like our love is a lost cause … because it is.
Before I can say anything else, the call ends. Should I feel guilty for loving her? For letting her know I love her? For taking things this far with her when we have nowhere to go?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, except this …
I love her.
It takes eons to get through the crawling line of security. When I do, I stand idle for a moment, afraid to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the glass as Archer. It’s been years. Until now, I never realized how much guilt I’ve harbored—guilt for so many things.
His blue eyes look gray, like the bark of a dead tree. The chair screeches along the floor as I pull it out to take a seat. The acrid odor of chlorine and human misery seeps into my skin until I can taste it. Until I fucking choke on it.
Archer’s old enough to be my father, and he looks it today. His shaved head, white whiskers, and deep wrinkles by his eyes and mouth. We stare at each other for several seconds before I reach for the phone, as does he.
“What are you doing here, Milo?” His voice is rough from layers of tar in his lungs.
“Thought I should come say …”
“Goodbye?” He laughs, which sends him into a coughing fit while he fists his hand at his mouth. “Years. It’s been years, and you decide to show up to say a final goodbye? Listen, little brother, I told you to forget about me. I told you to pretend I’m dead.”
“Well, that will be easy to do before long.” I frown. “I heard.”
Archer’s smile fades, dry lips covering his nicotine-stained teeth. “Fletcher told you? And that’s why you came?”
I shake my head. “Your attorney told me a date’s been set.”
“So it is why you’re here.”
“I talked to your attorney after I decided to come.”
“After Fletcher told you to come?”
“Does it fucking matter?”
He sweeps his hand along his head like he’s slicking back his nonexistent hair. “Is he taking good care of you?”
It’s hard to keep from choking on his words. Is he serious? “Sure.”
“Sure? That’s not an answer.”
“I’m alive. I have a job. Oh … and I’m getting married to the woman he chose for me. So yeah … it’s all good.”
“No shit? You’re getting hitched? Is she hot as fuck? If she’s not, just lie to me. One of us should get to fuck an actual woman.”
I try to hide my flinch. “It’s Pauline’s daughter.”
Archer’s eyebrows make a slow ascent up his forehead. “Well, done, Milo. Marrying into the Ellington family. Well fucking done.”
I don’t react. The last thing I’m going to do is give my dying brother some whiney bitch speech about marrying someone I don’t love or really know for that matter. Suppose I was the one in this god-forsaken place with an execution date. In that case, the last thing I’d want to hear is some asshole playing his fucking violin because he has to marry into a wealthy family, eat medium-rare steak every night, and screw some long-legged brunette when it’s time to have a family.
“How’s Fletch doing? I hope he’s moved on since Ruthie died. Life’s too short to spend it grieving the dead or visiting the near-dead,” he rasps before coughing.
“Moving on? I’m not sure what you mean by that. He works. Drinks. Smokes. Eats. Sleeps.”
“But is he getting some pussy?”
“Christ …” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “I dunno. We don’t discuss pussy.”
“Why the hell not? Oh … I forgot … he has a daughter, doesn’t he? Didn’t he adopt some girl for Ruthie?”