Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
It keeps them alive somehow.
Somewhere.
When he stands here in the silence, he can imagine them having dinner at that table, all of them. Serving food from big, steaming casseroles, sharing stories, laughing. Kaleb is thirteen forever and his parents are smiling and happy. Sometimes, Kyle can even picture Tristan sitting among them, his inappropriate jokes and banter. Everyone finds him endearing, having long ago welcomed him as Kyle’s life partner. His dad calls him Tris, because he likes forcing nicknames on everyone he knows. After dinner, the whole family will gather around the couch to listen to Kaleb play the violin, a new piece he’s perfected, a piece by Bach, whom he’s come to love after all. Tristan applauds the loudest. Kyle’s mom gives Tristan a compliment about his silk shirt, asks him where he got it. Kaleb lifts his violin to his chin for another song, then smiles at Kyle as he plays the first note, its beautiful vibrato ringing out through the house.
Then it all fades away—his family, Tristan, the violin—and it’s just Kyle in an empty house, that ring, that letter, and the night air whistling in through a cracked window somewhere.
“You were wrong, by the way,” he tells that silver ring, or Tristan, or no one at all. “About everything. But I’ll try anyway. I’ll try to make this work. Watch me.”
He turns his back on the ring and leaves.
He takes the more scenic route to the bar, making his way along the back side of town. He passes the grocery store, shoes crunching along the gravel of the old parking lot. He stops at the intersection to let a car go by, its occupant being a teenager who works at a burger joint he frequents. The bushy-haired kid waves cheerily at Kyle before making his left-hand turn.
There are many things Kyle said goodbye to over the years.
The taste of a good hamburger hurts the worst.
It’s when passing the police station that Kyle finds himself pulled to a stop. His eyes are drawn to the wide glass windows in the front, showing a perfect view of the office, brightly-lit.
Through that front window of the police station sits a man, twenty or so, in an opened white dress shirt, sleeves pushed up, a loosened blue tie hanging at his neck. Crusted blood at his left nostril. Busted lip, black eye. Golden brown skin, bright red drops like punctuation marks speckled across his exposed chest.
Despite his condition, the young man stares calmly ahead at nothing, looking like he’s merely waiting on an order of fries to come out of some kitchen.
Then his eyes lock onto Kyle’s through the glass.
Even in six short months, Kyle has gotten to know every person in town, including friends and family who visit. There are no tourists who drive through, nor any visitors at any time of year. It’s the reason Kyle picked this hole in the dirt they call a town, the way broken things end up here, lost souls, where even tumbleweeds avoid. No one ever refers to it by its actual name—Nowhere, they call it instead. There isn’t even a Holiday Inn or a Motel 6 for miles. Anyone who is here means to be.
That face through the window, Kyle has never seen before.
That face, looking at him right now.
The guy lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers at Kyle, a hello. When Kyle doesn’t return the wave, he drops his hand to his lap, looks away, and sighs to himself, bored.
Kyle frowns, then moves on.
Slow night at the bar. No surprises. Only a visit from the tall, rigid police chief, Juan Rojas, who eyes Kyle the moment he enters, has a brief chat with two of the customers in the back that seems more like an interrogation, lingers by the windows with radio in hand, fidgeting, then leaves. Many nights, Kyle notices the chief tailing him in his patrol car, slowly, as he walks home. Sometimes, Kyle enjoys the attention. He will stop, turn, and give the chief a little wave. The chief never waves back. It’s okay. The town has so little crime, if any at all. It’s likely been a year since anyone’s even heard the sound of a police siren.
It’s ten after ten when Kyle’s crouched in front of the back freezer, a bag of tools at his side. Cade pokes her head through the swinging kitchen door. “How’s it coming?”
Kyle tosses a wrench back into the bag. “You’ll need to call Truman for this.”
“Please don’t tell me that. Anything but fucking Truman.”
“I’m not a technician.”
Cade hangs her head, lets out all her breath. “This is gonna cost a lot, I can already see it. I thought this would be the year I’d get my daughter a car.” She winces. “Can we run without a freezer? Maybe ‘til the end of the year, few more months?”