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 voice echoes through the hallway, but there’s no response.
A pit of bile sloshes in my gut as I clear each room like I’m some kind of private investigator.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Hallway.
Guest bedroom.
Bathroom.
Laundry cove.
Main bedroom.
Main bathroom.
A chill spirals down my spine as I make my way back up the hall.
There are any number of reasons why my dad isn’t answering, and he sure as hell isn’t required to tell me where he’s going. He’s a hardheaded old fucker with a teenage rebellious streak. If I told him to tell me if he was leaving, he’d leave and explicitly not tell me because I’d asked him to.
I sort through the table by his recliner for any indication of his whereabouts. There’s a half-smoked cigar in an ashtray. A crossword puzzle. The remote to the TV sits next to a box of tissues with a melted butterscotch candy on top.
“Where are you, Pops?” I ask, gazing across the room for a clue.
I suppress a wave of nausea and fight against a streak of panic.
There’s nothing to panic about. This is my dad. He’s probably at the Cupboard with Mrs. Shaw.
But even as I think it, I don’t quite believe it.
“I had some tests done last week. Got a knot on my liver. Doctor didn’t like the look of it, so he did a little biopsy.”
I take a deep breath, calming myself. He’s fine. He’s . . .
“But I’m gonna have to die sooner or later. And we don’t really get to plan our exit strategy, do we?”
No. Don’t think about that now.
I turn to go back home. My gaze slides over the hooks by the door, and my blood runs cold.
Where are the blackberry buckets?
The clear ice cream buckets from decades ago hang by the door unless they’re being used. It’s one of the few rules around here. Those containers were saved by my mother, and Dad thinks they’re plated in gold—he acts like it, anyway.
Did he take Michael with him?
The thought eases my concern enough to make it easier to breathe. Still, I make it back to my cabin quick.
Lauren is standing at the sink when I walk in. Maddie is sitting at the table with a glass of juice.
“Hey, Mads,” I say before the door closes behind me. “Did Pops ask you to go berry picking with him today?”
“Yes. Well, I was supposed to. I told him last night that I would. But then . . . Daniel . . .” She frowns. “I went over there to get my phone charger this morning and told him I couldn’t go. Why?”
Fuck.
“Jack,” Lauren says, her voice rising. “What’s going on, damn it?”
“Probably nothing. But Dad is gone and . . .” I turn to the door. “Something tells me . . . I just need to find him. I’ll be back.”
“Jack . . .”
I hate leaving like this. I really want to turn back and fix things with her. Explain it all. Tell her that my dad might be dying, but he’s sworn me to secrecy, and the burden of it is swallowing me already, and I’ve known for only a handful of hours.
My truck sits a few feet from the cabin. I hop inside, turn it on, and jet onto the street.
I’m not the reason my dad might have cancer, but I’m culpable all the same. I’ve not spent nearly enough time with him. I’ve been detached from him just like I have been Lauren, burying my head at work and pretending everything else was fine. Because it was fine. For me.
What else have I missed? What else have I been blissfully ignorant about? Who else have I let down because of my misplaced priorities? How many times has Lo brought the kids here, and I haven’t even known?
Fuck.
“I’m not allowed to bring a friend to shoulder some of the single parenting that, although I’ve become quite adept at, I didn’t want for yet another fucking weekend?”
Shit. And now Dad could die.
I slap my hand against the steering wheel as the engine roars down the lane.
It’s a complete mindfuck that I could be doing what felt right, what was so easily justifiable, and have it be all wrong. Or partly wrong. Wrong enough to have let the seams in the fabric of my life fall apart.
Nodding to Gayle as I drive by, I set my sights on the top of the Cupboard. Mrs. Shaw’s purple golf cart sits by the back door, and I pull in beside it, a puff of dust filling the air around my truck.
The store is empty, aside from the lady of the hour behind the bar.
“Well, hello, Jack,” she says sweetly. The smile on her face slips as she takes me in. “What’s the matter?”
“Um, nothing. Just wondering if you’ve seen my father.”
“No. Not since this morning. He came in for a piece of rhubarb pie. Why? What’s wrong?”