Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Chapter Two
WILLOW
It hurt driving down the tree-lined driveway. Physically hurt. I gritted my teeth against the tears that pricked the back of my eyes. No way could I cry. I didn’t cry when I lost my business, my home, my reputation, my self-respect. I wouldn’t cry now. I wouldn’t think about being taught to drive down this gravel road, hearing my father’s patient instructions even as I lurched into second gear, grinding the gears as I did so. I wouldn’t remember the kisses on skinned knees, the crinkle of his eyes as he smiled at me running down the driveway coming home from school, unexpectedly finding him there waiting for me.
Despite my promises to myself, a single tear ran down my cheek. I wiped at it angrily.
“Fucking Brody Adams,” I muttered. This was his fault. Though I certainly wasn’t at my best entering town again, I had a certain amount of resolve, of mental strength leftover. In fact, I was impressed at just how much was left considering my life had imploded dramatically and completely. But when you’re ruined, coming home with your tail between your legs, and you encounter your childhood crush turned bully, things tended to turn to shit. Especially when that childhood crush turned bully didn’t remember you and had the ability to give you a ticket. Granted, he didn’t give me a ticket, but that seemed out of pity or him pretending he was some friendly small-town cop.
I had no doubt he was using his authority as some kind of fucked-up power trip. The mere thought of him having any kind of power over me sent chills down my spine. I wanted to run. Badly. But I couldn’t. If I had anywhere else to go, I’d be there right now.
This was a last resort.
And a karmic joke.
In addition to me having to face the place I vowed I’d never go back to, I had to live here under the rule of the man who’d caused me to run in the first place.
I parked my car next to my mother’s vintage VW Bug. The same one she’d driven for years. It was metallic green. It only got up to 60 mph, and you could hear it coming from a mile away. Just another thing to set our family apart from those middle-class to upper-middle-class families in New Hope who upgraded their American-made vehicles every three years.
My father’s truck was in the detached garage, I guessed. It had been years… Maybe she’d gotten something else. Something newer, more practical, in need of less maintenance. But I knew better than that. The old Ford would be in there. The one my father restored himself. With my brother and me.
“You’re not just watching, Tittlemouse,” he said, handing me a wrench. “I’m not bringing up a girl who doesn’t know how to take care of herself. You’re gonna know how to do everything a man can do, and you’ll do it better.” His brown eyes crinkled at the sides as he winked and then kissed me on the head.
I squeezed my eyes shut at the memory. I couldn’t even see the truck right now, but I knew the fucking thing was there like the Titanic, a ghost ship lurking and waiting to haunt those stupid enough to climb aboard.
I’d have to see it. Because my mother’s Bug was not suitable for Colorado winters. I was surprised she was still driving it this late, but perhaps there hadn’t been a big enough snow yet. Soon… Soon she’d switch out vehicles and drive that truck.
The trees and bushes surrounding the house already had Christmas lights strung around them. There was no order, no uniformity. They were hung with chaos, with wild abandon. My mother loved Christmas and any and all religious holidays, despite the fact that she did not follow any organized form of religion aside from dabbling in Wicca.
The sight of the multicolored lights that illuminated the pink shutters of our cabin brought back memories of all the Thanksgivings and Christmases I’d spent at this house.
My knuckles turned white from the force I used to grip the steering wheel.
I stayed in the car for three minutes and thirteen seconds when I parked. It would’ve been longer had the door to the house not opened. I was surprised I had gotten the three minutes. Despite the early hour, my mother was up. She was a morning person.
Many of my teenage years were punctuated by her blasting Fleetwood Mac on the dusty, old record player as the sun was coming up.
I couldn’t listen to Stevie Nicks without shuddering, trying to shrug off unwanted memories of a past I’d long left behind.
Her multicolored kimono flowed behind her as she ran out the door wearing purple slippers. My mother was a purple person.
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to find the mental strength to face her and her perpetual good mood and positivity.