Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
The more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right. I couldn’t give her those things. I didn’t want to give her those things. Maybe I had at one point, but I didn’t anymore. There were too many things going on in my life to think about settling down or worrying about someone else.
But I loved Julia. And when I got past the anger of seeing her with someone else, my fucking brother, I realized something else—he was the only one I wanted her with. I knew Gage. He was the only guy that would ever be close to being good enough for her. He’d be loyal to her, do everything he promised her. I knew this because he’d always done that for me.
Growing up in Dorchester, the streets were a hard place to be. With a mother working two jobs, Gage and I learned to scrap real quick. It was the survival of the fittest and we always had each other’s back. He never failed to back me up, regardless of what mess I’d gotten myself in.
And I got myself in some messes.
At some point, fighting became an acquired taste, a way to feel alive. Fighting was something I was good at, something that got me credibility and respect on the streets. If Coach D’Amato hadn’t broken up one of my fights in the parking lot of Shaw’s Supermarket when I was fourteen and introduced me to wrestling, God knows what would’ve happened.
Gage was more of a peacekeeper by nature. He’d avoid situations that he knew would probably result in a fight and try to keep everyone happy. My brother could bang with the best of them—he had one of the best right hands I’ve ever seen—but fighting wasn’t his go-to like it was mine. He’d fight if he had to, but he tried to keep us out of trouble.
But trouble was something that just found me.
And the stress of that probably helped kill my mother. And it’s what definitely killed my brother.
I sprint the last few yards home, feeling my lungs burn, my legs like lead. It’s a beautiful distraction from the ache in my mind.
JULIA
I warp the sweater tighter around my body and pick up the ink pen. I can hear the people milling about outside. Their music is up entirely too high for this time of night.
I go through the numbers one last time. I will pay the rent in the morning for the next month and the minimum due on my credit card. That will leave me with just enough to cover groceries for the next week if I am careful.
I write out the rent check and then watch everything go blurry behind a wall of tears.
I hate this feeling.
I despise having to worry how I am going to feed my child. I hate the balancing game of “What can I afford this week?” I hate the hope I have that Crew will be by with a little charity because I don’t want to need it. I don’t want to depend on anyone, least of all him.
The tears run freely down my face, and I struggle to keep them from becoming full-blown sobs. I’m so tired. I’m exhausted in every way, in ways I didn’t know existed a couple of years ago.
When I married Gage, we never had a lot, but he always made sure we had enough. He was smart and worked hard. I worked until I had Ever and then he didn’t want me working, so he picked up a second job at night.
And then he died.
The loss of him was pure devastation on every level.
Not only did I lose my best friend and the best person I’d ever known, but my entire life changed, too. It took our savings and then some to bury him and even then, it wasn’t a burial I wanted him to have. He deserved so much more than I was able to give him. He gave me the world and I gave him a small stone headstone with a name and date on it. “Loving husband and father” is written in a canned script on his stone and, while this is true, it feels like such a slap to his face to have something so simple when he was so much more than that.
I think back to our house in Cambridge and the cozy life we had. How I’d have dinner made and he’d come home every single day and kiss me like it was the first time he’d ever kissed me.
The music outside drifts through the kitchen door, the vulgar lyrics shaking me out of my memory. I look around the room. The paint is peeling above the sink and the wallpaper is drooping in the corner. Reality hits me like a tidal wave, swamping me with more despair than I’ve felt in a long time.