Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
My keys are heavy in my hand, and my shoes are sitting by the door. All I have to do is slide them on and take off.
Instead, my feet stay glued to the floor.
“Yes, but we are your family. I’m not saying you never have to get up and go because, believe it or not, I am rational. I understand things are important and you’re the boss. But you’ve trained your team, Jack. They’ve stopped even trying to do things because they know you’ll come running. That pisses me off—not just for me and Maddie and Michael, but for you too.”
I was going to do exactly what she said I’d do. I didn’t even think about it.
I toss my keys onto the dresser. They clatter against the wood. Relief flows through my body at the decision being made.
“Handle it, Tommy.”
“What do you mean ‘handle it’?”
“Handle it. Do your best. If he gives us a fine, I’ll deal with it when I get back.”
There’s a long pause. “So . . . you’re not coming back?”
“Nope. I’m here with my family. You’re in charge back there. Figure it out, all right?”
“Cool,” he says, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I got it. Go enjoy your family.”
I grin. “Talk to you later.”
“Later.”
The line goes dead.
I hold the phone in my hand and force all thoughts of work out of my mind. The shop will be fine without me. My family might not. I toss my phone on the bed.
“Fuck it,” I say, going down the hall.
Lauren’s book is on her chest when I walk in the room. Her brows are pinched together.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, heading to the fridge.
She clears her throat, starting to pull her leg from the pillows. I lift a brow and she freezes. I go back to the fridge.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she says, settling against the sofa again. “But the cabin is so quiet, you know, and your voice drifts through the place.”
“Okay?” I slide out a package of hamburger meat and toss it on the counter. “What about it?”
“Are you going back to the shop?”
The question is straightforward—an inquiry about my intentions about work. But that’s not all it is.
It’s an inquiry as to whether I’ve been listening.
My chest constricts as I come to terms with her expectations. She expects me to leave.
I glance at her over my shoulder, and the tightness around my lungs leaves little room for air. I’m sorry for doing this to you, Lo.
Billie’s advice rolls through my head. In typical Billie fashion, it made sense . . . mostly.
“I’ll put it in Jack terms. Do you even have a marriage maintenance plan?”
I laugh at her. “A what?”
“You’re a mechanic. How often do you recommend people have their cars checked for oil, brakes, whatever?”
“Once a year, at least. Or whenever something seems wrong.”
“When is the last time you did that with Lauren?”
My laughter subsides.
“Look, Jack—this doesn’t have to be complicated, and you don’t need my help. Actually, I can’t even help you. You just need to . . . prioritize your life. Your real life. The core of who you are as a person.”
Shit.
“If she’s the most important thing in your life, then treat her like it,” she says. “Because the fact of the matter is that she’s going to believe you when you show her how you feel. Remember that.”
I turn on the tap and wash my hands. I owe Billie when I get home.
“There used to be a pitch-in dinner at the end of the lake season, as we called it back then,” I say, turning off the tap. “One summer, I was probably eight or nine, it was . . . magic that year. The weather was perfect. The lake water was cool and clean. All the moms would meet at the Cupboard in the evenings and play cards and have drinks or whatever. The dads would play horseshoes or sit on picnic tables and smoke cigars. It was a big community vibe.”
“That sounds nice.”
I grin, drying off my hands. “It was.” I toss the towel next to the sink and take out a platter and seasonings. “Anyway, that particular year, everyone was jacked for the last get-together before we all went our separate ways. Mrs. Shaw procured a couple of homemade ice cream makers, and there was just this buzz about the night.”
Lauren sits up. Interest mixed with confusion—Why am I telling her this and not answering her question?—is written across her beautiful face.
I open the package of meat and begin making patties. I remember doing this with my mom for years.
“Mom worked all afternoon making this pretzel-strawberry salad that my dad loved. And she made cucumbers and onion in vinegar—don’t ask me why I remember that.” I chuckle. “We were getting ready to head to the Cupboard. Mom had her little basket full of Tupperware, and I had my flashlight in case a game of flashlight tag popped off.”