Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Is she still living at the dorm in the family housing?” I asked.
Drew grunted.
I grinned.
“What’s for dinner?”
My phone rang again, and I looked at Drew accusingly.
He handed it to me, and I silenced it by pressing the ‘ignore call’ button on the screen.
Then I shoved the thing into my pocket and crossed my arms over my chest.
“You’re a stubborn bitch, you know that?”
I looked at Aspen.
“Look who’s talking, felony girl.”
Aspen flipped me off.
“My life isn’t under scrutiny here, yours is.”
I shrugged.
“Well, my life is just that—mine, and you need to butt out of it.”
Aspen rolled her eyes as Downy started to chuckle.
“Do you remember that time my sister went all Carrie Underwood on your brother’s cop car, and you didn’t see your way out of it?” Downy butted in.
I turned my glare to him.
“This is an A and B conversation. C your way out of it.”
He did spirit fingers, raising his fingers high up above his head and wiggling them. The move made him look sort of ridiculous, causing me to sigh.
“Can you at least give me until tomorrow to talk about it?” I asked.
Aspen’s mouth twitched, and I moaned. “Oh, come on!”
And that was how I ended up pouring out my recent life story to my friends, who apparently didn’t have anything better to do with their lives.
“So you just left, and you didn’t wait to see if he had anything to say?” Aspen asked with incredulity. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
She was right. It didn’t.
But I wasn’t the same Naomi that I used to be, and the sooner everyone saw that, the better.
***
“Goodnight, Mom,” I whispered, hugging my mother tighter than I would have normally.
She’d just spent the last two hours talking to me about my brother, and what her hopes and dreams had been for him.
I’d sat there, listening to her words, wondering if I should feel bad about what happened with my brother.
Should being the operative word.
I didn’t feel bad. Not even a little bit. He’d done this to himself, and he only had himself to blame.
I’d stuck by his side, even after he’d screwed over my best friend in the whole wide world. Even after he’d almost gotten me fired from my job because he’d blamed me for something that he’d done.
But when he’d run me over, almost stealing my life and causing me serious bodily injury, I came to a decision.
One where I promised myself that I’d stop putting everyone else first and put me first instead.
It was this promise that kept me from calling Sean because I was putting me first. Even if it ruined us in the process.
“Love you, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow when you get home from work,” I whispered into her hair.
My mother squeezed just a little bit tighter, then let me go.
With a pat to the cheek, she walked to her room and didn’t once look back.
I watched her go, standing there in the doorway to my very empty childhood bedroom, and waited until her door closed to follow suit.
Once my door was closed, I looked at the room that’d been my happy place when I was growing up.
Now it just looked like an empty room.
None of my personalization was there anymore. No wacky pink paint with purple zebra stripes. No knick-knacks or posters from teen magazines or any of my old soccer trophies.
There wasn’t anything. Not even any curtains.
My phone beeped again, and I looked at it, sitting on the blow-up mattress, and wondered if I should break down and call the man back.
He was relentless, I’d give him that.
I threw back the covers on the mattress, shucked my watch and rings, and placed them on the floor beside the bed.
My phone was the next to follow, getting plugged into the charger that I’d borrowed from my mother.
And when I was in nothing but a t-shirt and panties, I flipped off the light, then walked to the bathroom. Closing the door quietly, I washed my face, used the facilities, and lifted my shirt, staring at what was left of the last few months torment.
My belly looked good, really good. (As long as I ignored the stretch marks and flab.) The stoma was gone, and all that was left of it was a pink scar that was healing, and I’d been assured would fade in color over time.
I looked like any normal thirty-year-old woman would, or at least I thought I did.
My belly could be flatter, and my breasts could be larger.
My ass had cellulite, and my chin was well on its way to being double.
But I felt good. I was on the road to recovery, I was healthy, and for the most part, I was happy about where I was in life.
Sighing audibly, I yanked my shirt back down, washed my hands, and turned off the light to the bathroom before opening the door and heading to my bed.