Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 12
Luke
Ah, Christmas. Good old Christmas. One of my least favorite days of the year. Then again, most days are my least favorite days.
Today went off just fine. Shade woke up at an ungodly hour, and we unwrapped gifts. Feeney had thought ahead, got some, and wrapped them up before getting me to write my name on the tag. She’d done the Santa ones too. I’m capable of buying my own son gifts, so he got extra spoiled this year, but it’s alright. I couldn’t take dealing with my dad or with Britt’s parents, so I left that for tomorrow—Dad in the morning, Britt’s parents in the evening. No one liked it, but then no one was ever happy with any day I chose. Even when Britt was still alive, before Shade came along, the parentals were impossible to please.
After a day spent entertaining Shade and trying to shut off any lingering emotions trying to unbuckle the hatch of the dark, dank place where I’ve locked them, Feeney must sense I’m worn-out and puts Shade to bed for me. She looked worn-out too. Shade was so excited, and it was a long day. We managed to make a chicken for dinner without burning the house down. I cooked it on the barbeque with a beer can up its bottom, and because she probably couldn’t make potatoes and I didn’t give a shit, we had instant rice. Although, she did manage to make a can of corn that turned out yellow and not charred black. Progress, that’s what I call it.
As Feeney is upstairs putting Shade to bed, or in her own room or whatever, I stop to think she is probably missing her family, that today might be lonely for her too. I haven’t asked her about her situation or her parents, but she probably thinks it’s normal because I’m an insensitive ass. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be any such thing. That I should be making an effort.
Progress. I need to be making progress.
Not just with dinner, but with her.
I shove myself off the couch, leaving the TV on to the sports reruns I was just staring at anyway. I take a coffee cup out of the cupboard and a bottle of expensive whisky from under the sink. I stashed it in the back with all the cleaning products, and there’s a child safety lock on the cupboard from ages ago. I bet Shade could easily get it off now, but then again, maybe not, because I can barely figure the damn thing out myself.
Once I have the whisky, I pour a generous amount into the mug before tucking the bottle back in the cupboard and securing the plastic lock thing.
I’m not a drinker. I don’t believe in liquid courage or drowning one’s sorrows. That never really worked for me. I don’t drink to remember, and I don’t drink to forget. I don’t drink to feel better, and I don’t drink to stew in self-pity. I just drink if I feel like having a drink, and because it’s Christmas, so why the hell not?
The whisky flows down my throat. It’s expensive, good whisky. The bottle hasn’t been touched in months, but it doesn’t taste stale or off from being open so long. I guess alcohol, the hard stuff, doesn’t expire. I can feel the burn all the way down my chest into my stomach. Because I didn’t eat much at dinner, or much at all before that, and because it’s been a while since I’ve had a drink of anything, let alone whisky, it goes to my head almost immediately.
I’m a big guy. But I do feel it. I take another sip, and I feel that too. Then another.
“Hey.”
“Holy sh—” I jump and spin, ready to face off against the sudden intruder who decided to burgle my house silently but also weirdly introduces herself.
It’s just Feeney.
She looks at the cup, looks at me. One eyebrow tilts up just a fraction like she knows I don’t have coffee, tea, or warm fucking milk in here.
“Uh, I just…” She crosses her arms over her chest.
She’s wearing a white t-shirt with the black outline of an opossum giving both thumbs up on it, which she must have bought after the backyard incident. Yes, I heard all about it. Her hair is pulled into a sloppy bun on top of her head, and most of it has escaped over the course of the day. She’s wearing jeans—tight jeans—with bare feet, no socks, and no makeup. Anyone else might classify her as a hot mess after a long day, but right now, I can appreciate the hot in the mess. And maybe the mess too.
I can feel my body reacting, heating up—things tightening and hardening. And no, not my abs or my resolve. Things are aching, but no, not my heart. Well, scratch that. Yes, my heart, but that’s normal. It’s other things besides my heart. Fuck, it’s the whisky. Why did I decide it was a good idea?