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)
And maybe one of the barstools.
Eh.
We’ll live if the shits just a little wobblier now.
With my wardrobe finally back in its rightful place, I open the front door to immediately be greeted by a scowling big brother. “Did you really not fucking hear me honking?”
My grin grows impish. “Must be going deaf from hearing my woman scream so much.”
“Fuck you!” Pres playfully calls to me as I exit her home.
I spin around on the grey dress shoes she bought me and teasingly tisk, “You have no patience for banging me. Such an eager beaver, baby.”
Her good-natured glare is attached to a mocking, “You can have him walk home from the meeting. Give him time to think about his behavior.”
“You mean time to think about what I’m gonna do to you in the restaurant bathroom?”
“You are not fucking your girlfriend in the bathroom while we have lunch,” Noah nags prior to meeting her stare. “Invitation to ride with Shell is still open. Just text and let her know if you change your mind.”
“Will do,” my girlfriend sweetly insists.
I reach for the passenger handle at the same time I call out, “I love you, Pres.”
“I love you, too, Ry.”
And it’s that love that makes doing shit like facing the other member of my fucked-up family a little easier.
The drive from Pres’s townhome to our deceased father’s mega-mansion is done to the sounds of Metallica. Noah’s music choice, which has always leaned more towards pop than any other shit, catches me off guard, but I like it.
Almost as much as I like arguing with him about other heavy metal bands.
“You know Dad is actually the reason I know fucking anything about Iron Maiden?” Noah confesses during our exiting of his vehicle.
“Shut the fuck up…”
“Yeah, them and Judas Priest, were like his shit,” he informs as we stroll towards the front door.
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“No fucking way.”
“Yeah!” He shoves his keys into his pocket. “Loving metal was just one of those weird things he typically kept to himself.”
A small grunt of acknowledgement is given prior to me investigating. “What other weird shit did he keep to himself?”
“Uh…,” my brother ponders out loud, “he started to like poetry over the last couple of years.”
“Yeah, Janet told me that shit.”
“She really cared about him.”
“She loved him, Noah,” I bluntly announce by the front door. “And he loved her.”
His mouth cracks open to argue yet stops when he allows himself a moment to truly consider what I said.
“What he didn’t love was me, which is why I shouldn’t be here.”
“Ryder.”
“What?” Opening the unlocked front door is followed by me sighing. “I don’t need to hear in a room full of people – who already think I’m a piece of shit – that he left me nothing because he thought I was a piece of shit. I mean, fucking seriously, Noah. You could’ve just texted or told me that shit over burgers.”
“Italian,” he corrects and begins leading the way for where the reading will take place. “And how do you know he left you nothing?”
The sardonic expression he’s shot is instant.
“Come on, Ryder. You saw him in his final days.” Our passing of family pictures prompts me to redirect my attention needlessly fixing my black jacket rather than look at them. “He wasn’t the same man we grew up with.”
“True.”
“What if his will reflects that?”
I look up to meet his crystal stare. “And what if it doesn’t?”
“Then, oh fucking well.” Noah casually shrugs. “I’ll do what he should’ve done and take whatever he left to me and give some to you because you – whether you fucking like it or not –were his son, too.”
Maybe.
Sometimes I think we should’ve done a DNA test to verify that shit.
Our entry into the small study where I last saw our father reveals to us the other members of our family have already arrived.
Our mother is stationed in the window seat mindlessly fluffing out her hair as though expecting this to include a photoshoot. She put on an Oscar worthy performance at his small funeral service, which Pres as well as Law, attended with me. There hasn’t been any effort on her part to see me or connect. Unlike her deceased ex-husband who grew a conscience, her moral compass is still led by dollar amounts.
Liz is located in the desk chair, phone out and selfie-mode activated. Her pout expressions and over-dramatic eyelash fluttering to show off the extensions she supposedly got done “just for this critical moment in her life” really do capture the person she’s become.
Vapid.
Vain.
Vying for any and all validation she can find from outside sources.
I pity them.
They pity me.
“Noah,” Janet warmly greets the way our mother should. “How are you?”
“I’m making it.” He sits in the wingback chair I last saw occupied by our father. “How are you?”
She attempts to smile in spite of her clear pain. “I miss him.”