Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Are you sure that you’re going to be okay, Len?” Her eyes are filled with nothing but love and concern, making me uneasy about lying to the one person who has always been there for me since my parents died.
“It’s a breakup, not a breakdown. I’ll be fine. I swear it. I have a lead on a new job and another interview tomorrow,” I lie. “I’ll be great. I swear.”
She claps her hands together, rubbing her palms up and down. “What do you say we hit the town tonight? One last girls’ night for an entire year.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and in the corner of my eye, I glimpse muscles and tattoos walking by the window. I turn my head, but there’s no-one there.
Great, now I’m seeing things.
“Len?” she asks. I snap my head back to hers. “Girls’ night?”
“Uh yeah, maybe?” Is the most solid answer I can come up with.
“I’ll take that as a yes!” she says triumphantly. “Oh, before I forget, I’ll give you the mailing address of the camp before I leave. Because if I’m able to accept mail there, I’m going to need you to send me care packages with things like shampoo, conditioner, lotion, magazines, weed...”
We both laugh. My smile hiding all my untold truths.
“Done,” I agree.
She points to me. “And the second I get back, you better believe that I’m coming straight over to you.”
“You better.” Although, I’m not sure where she’ll be coming to see me.
Do park benches have addresses?
Chapter Eleven
LENNY
Of all of the places there are to sit in this monstrous house, I find myself on the floor in the foyer with my back to the stairs. Spread out before me is every picture Jared and I have ever taken together, plus a few albums from my life prior to my parents’ deaths. I’m torturing myself. I know this, but I can’t stop either. Torture isn’t something you come back from. It’s meant to keep you suffering to the end, and apparently, that’s my plan for the evening. Eternal emotional suffering. At least, until the vodka knocks me out.
“Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture,” I mutter. The Edgar Allan Poe quote makes me think of my mother. I lift an old album and flip open the page to a picture of me and my mom and my dad during a trip to Disney World my freshman year of high school.
All three of us are sporting huge cheesy grins while at the camera. “Hi,” I say, tracing my fingers over my parents. I miss them, but I realize that I miss more than them. I look to the younger version of myself.
I miss me, too. The girl I used to be. The one who isn’t holding a half empty bottle of vodka while wondering if there’s enough spare change lying around this house to buy another when this one runs out.
My phone buzzes, and I glance over at the screen.
YULI: There’s a party tonight! Let’s go! Last night out!!!!!!
I sigh and look around the floor at the scattered pictures from my past and land on a picture of my parents holding up a set of keys, standing in front of the first house they ever sold. I know it’s Yuli’s last night, but I’m too busy wallowing in self-pity to party. I type out the text but before I hit send she sends me another one.
YULI: BTW you can’t say no. I leave tomorrow, and I need to get my drunk on with my favorite person. Oh yeah, if my amazing presence doesn’t motivate you, maybe, free booze will?
Shit. I can’t bail on her. I erase my earlier message and send a different one.
ME: Not in the mood to party, but I want to see you. Come over. Bring tacos.
I lift the almost empty bottle of vodka to my lips.
ME: And vodka.
The second I hit send, the house goes completely dark. I stand up from the floor and step over the sea of scrapbooks and photo albums to hit the light switch.
Nothing.
I pull the curtain aside and look out the window. There’s a Florida Power and Light truck in the driveway. I walk outside and approach the man in uniform, who is attaching something to my electric meter. It’s a lock. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He turns around, startled. He points his flashlight in my face and I hold my hands up to block the blinding light until he redirects it to the ground.
“Sorry, about that, ma’am, and I’m sorry about the late hour, but it’s the end of my shift, and I usually don’t do many disconnects out here on this side of the bridge, so I saved it for last. Don’t worry though. They’ll send me right back out when the bill gets paid.”