Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
I’d forced myself to stop thinking about him and had tried to put the situation behind me. Fortunately, I’d had a nice distraction to focus on, so I’d kept the shower I’d returned to after his departure relatively quick, since I’d been afraid that if I didn’t write the music I’d been hearing in my head down quickly, I’d lose it. But the second I’d gotten out of the shower, my already shitty day had gone from bad to worse because a stomach-dropping realization had hit me.
I’d forgotten my journal.
In the coffee shop.
Damn fucking Captain Kirk statue.
I’d practically thrown my clothes back on and prayed to Spock, the good old Captain, and every other Star Trek character I could think of that my journal would be in the exact same spot where I’d left it when I’d barreled through the front door.
It hadn’t been.
And I’d lost it.
I’d started crying like a little baby right there in the coffee shop, surrounded by signed pictures of Leonard Nimoy, William Shatner, and the rest of the cast, as well as endless Star Trek paraphernalia: a plastic phaser, framed certificates from Starfleet Academy, and an action figure of Worf. My only saving grace had been a timely lull in business with only a couple of customers in line. When the familiar barista had settled her hand on my shoulder and asked me what was wrong, I’d ignored my snotty nose and leaking eyes to ask her if anyone had turned the journal in. When she’d sadly told me that no one had, I’d sunk down into the closest chair and mourned one of the last links to my previous life.
The journal had been a gift from my parents… the last gift I’d ever received from them. In addition to my father’s guitar, it was my entire world.
Yeah, it was pathetic… at twenty-four years old, my entire life revolved around a small leather-bound book full of pointless scribbles and worthless words, as well as a musical instrument that needed more love and attention than I could afford to give it, but it was what it was. My world had been shrinking bit by bit these past few years and I felt the loss of the journal in my bones.
The barista, Emily, had tried to comfort me, but I’d pretty much been inconsolable. Instead of ignoring me or sending me on my way, she’d made me a deliciously sweet latte that she’d pronounced was a secret family recipe she’d never in a million years sell and that she’d only decided to let me taste under the threat of death. As I’d sipped it, she’d sat with me and started telling me all about how Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner had stopped into a coffee shop she’d used to work at in Los Angeles. She’d been a Trekkie for most of her life— an uber Trekkie, even more than I was— and the meeting with her idols had spurred her to take the biggest risk of her life and open her own shop. I’d only half-listened as she’d told me her story, presumably because she’d both wanted to distract me and because she’d wanted to remind me that it was, in fact, just a journal. But it wasn’t until I’d finally noticed what she’d been holding beneath her hands on the surface of the table that I’d actually started to hear her words.
When she’d finished telling me all about how Spock and Kirk had specifically come to the New York shop to endorse it after hearing about Emily’s story through some kind of Star Trek forum on the Internet, I’d looked down at the Help Wanted sign resting beneath her fingers and asked her if she was hiring.
Twenty minutes later I’d walked out of the shop with my schedule, apron, and the chance at gaining something I hadn’t even known I’d wanted until the very moment when Emily had tapped her short fingernails on the distinctive Help Wanted sign.
Freedom.
The second I’d walked out of the door, lighter one journal and heavier one part-time cashier job in a Star Trek themed coffee shop, I’d nearly had a full-fledged panic attack. I’d ended up ducking into an alley and throwing up behind a dumpster as I’d come to the realization of what I’d done and what Billy would do to me if he found out. And then I’d remembered he was out of town for a month. What if this was the chance I’d been waiting for?
One short month to figure out how to build a new life.
It was lunacy.
The whole thing.
It would never work.
Billy would somehow find out, and he’d make the last couple of years look like a fucking vacation.
And I hadn’t cared.
Not one bit.
And then I’d cried.
And cried.
And cried.
Big, fat, happy sobs that had left me so exhausted I’d wished I could’ve just curled up on the ground right there among the trash, empty alcohol bottles, and discarded drug paraphernalia to sleep. I’d managed to climb to my feet, but only because I’d known there was a very real possibility that Billy would appear unannounced for another booty call. Thankfully he hadn’t, and I’d spent the rest of that day and night trying to figure out how to pull off The Great Escape. I’d borrowed the name from one of my father’s favorite movies from the sixties. I hadn’t even wanted to think about what my father would think about that.