Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Sounds that way,” she sweetly says back.
And fifty bucks says my brother has no fucking clue our so-called father is in love with his nurse.
“Please feel free to use the intercom if you need anything, Ryder.”
I present her a nod of understanding and slip inside the dimly lit study.
She shuts the door behind me, and the sound startles him out of the book he was reading. Immediately a whirlwind of emotions cycle through his aged face.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Excitement.
Relief.
Shock again.
He struggles to adjust himself in his wing-back chair near the lit fireplace that has no business being lit during the fucking summer. “Ryder.”
Flinching from hearing him say my name is unconsciously done. Rather than reply with the term, I would like, I merely nod in acknowledgement of being acknowledged.
An awe-filled sigh slips out next. “You came.”
“Noah made me a deal too good to pass up.”
He smiles fondly and shuts the book. “Cash?”
“Freedom.”
An impressed expression slowly shifts onto his face. “You did always want more than money.”
“Still do.”
Unsure of why he’s so full of life considering the fact his body is betraying him every minute he takes a breath, I shove my hands into my jean pockets, eyes anxious to look anywhere but at him. To my surprise, the room is covered in framed photos on the walls and the shelves. Some from what appears to be Christmases from our childhood. Another from the first time Noah and I each joined tee-ball. A tea party we were having with Liz and stuffed animals. Other frozen in time moments he’s collected are ones I was mentally absent or too fucked up for my own good like Liz’s college graduation and Noah’s wedding. Among my less proud instances are other memories I wasn’t around at all for. My sister’s wedding. One of his milestone birthdays. Shelby’s birth.
The entire room is teeming with so much devotion to a family I’ll probably never feel comfortable calling my own caresses an untouched nerve to numb the dysphoria.
Fuck, I want a smoke.
Need a goddamn smoke.
Just a tiny hit to chill out the increasing anxiousness I can feel all the way down in my fucking toes.
Fumbling around in my pocket to retrieve the pack of orange flavored toothpicks is done at the same time I speak again, “Noah said your dying wish is to see me.”
Adoration lingers on his wrinkled face. “It is.”
“Why?”
An answer appears in his eyes as the object is slipped against my cheek, yet instead of announcing it, he motions towards the bar that’s near the window. “Drink?”
“Drug addict,” I bitterly state the obvious. “Can’t fucking drink.”
“You’re a recovered addict.”
“Yeah, the not so funny thing about that shit is that you’re always recovering. You’re never actually recovered. It’s a never-ending fucking process from the time you choose to get clean until someone puts you in the goddamn ground.”
The man I wish wasn’t my father eagerly nods as though soaking in the information. “I understand.”
“You don’t.”
He momentarily presses his lips together on another, more disheartened nod.
Good.
He should feel like shit for speaking out of line.
And I’m not gonna fucking hold his hand or pretend his sudden encouragement makes a fucking difference in my world.
It doesn’t.
And I’m not here to pretend like it does so that he can die less fucking miserable.
“Would you like me to have Janet bring you something else? Soda? Juice? Water? Perhaps herbal tea? She has a family home remedy version that I’ve come to really-”
“Why did you wanna see me?”
One of his hands motions to the empty chair across from him. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No.”
“You sure? There are plenty of spaces around the room for you to do it without coming too close to me,” he good-naturedly teases.
“I won’t ask you again.”
His smile instantly fades.
“I’ll just fucking leave.”
“No,” he swiftly pleads, hand reaching out desperately my direction, “please stay, Ryder.”
Completely caught off guard by the response paralyzes me in place.
“Dying…,” my father begins again at the same time he seeks comfort in his seat, “um…makes a man really think.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“It really has a way of forcing you to look at the life you’ve lived. Evaluate what’s really worth anything or what really meant what.”
Strangely enough being on the brink of suicide has a way of doing the same.
“I’ve made many mistakes in my lifetime, Ryder. Shady deals. Betrayed those I called friends. Was unfaithful to more than one woman I loved. However, the one I regret making the most is the way I treated you.”
Chomping down on the stick in my mouth is mindlessly done.
“You never deserved to be cast aside.”
My ability to breathe unexpectedly grows difficult.
“You never deserved the hate you received.”
The constriction in my chest increases.
“It was not your fault that our marriage was failing. It was not your fault that we didn’t love each other. It was not your fault that I regretted settling down too early. It was not your fault you’re your mother wanted to be a trophy wife but not a mother.”