Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I’m so scared to say anything to anyone because every time I open my mouth, I feel like all the bitter shit from the past is just going to come pouring out—the product of a twelve-year marriage and the two years after that, during which I spent trying to get my shit together and pick up the pieces. I’ve asked myself the usual questions so many times—how much of it was a lie, were we ever really in love, did any of it mean anything, how could one person do that to another person who put their faith in them—that I’m sick to death of the endless cycle. I wish I could rip my brain out of my head, put it in the washing machine, and give it a thorough cleaning before I stuff it back in place.
In short, ever since I found out some crucial familial information that set me at odds with my dad after I turned sixteen, then leaving at eighteen, getting married, trying to make a life with the person I thought was the right one, and having all that shattered to shit, it’s been a heck of a dark time.
And then.
That hug.
That crazy, spontaneous hug that said you don’t have to explain. I get it. My life fell apart, too, once upon a time, and it sucked. I know things are hard. Sometimes all we need is just a second of physical contact with another empathetic person. I’m here. Always.
I still can’t believe she hugged me.
That hug set off a string of chain reactions that I didn’t expect. Internally and externally.
Said chain led me to fix the tiller in record time because my mind was suddenly clear and focused on it, and all the nasty voices banging around in my skull just shut the fuck up for a change. After tilling all the flower beds, I tackled the deck, which was a good physical distraction anyway. After all that was done, it was nearly dark. Tomorrow I’ll rent a truck and get all the rotten wood cleared out. Then I’ll start taking up patio stones to see if they can be saved.
Feeling hungry, I ate something and actually tasted it for the first time in god knows how long. Nanny’s chicken and pickle sandwiches with accompanying pickle gravy on the side were the best things I’ve had in ages. The shower I took was warm instead of cold, and what do you know, warm water is so much more pleasant. After that, I hit my much too small twin-sized bed, expecting to fall into an exhausted sleep, but it didn’t happen.
My brain refused to be silent, and after a few hours, I got up and crept into the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, but I did think about making myself a cup of tea or something equally soothing. I spotted Nanny’s address book—which she’s maniacal about keeping up to date—and found an entry for Remi’s parents. I then found one for Remi. It was the same address.
I knew where she lived in high school, and it hasn’t changed. They haven’t moved.
I can’t say what made me think it was a good idea to throw on a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie, then tug on the shoes I use for running, but I did all that and slipped out of the house. I left Nanny a note just in case. Something to the tune of how I needed a walk to clear my head.
I really did go out with the intention of just going a few blocks, but I kept going. And going. And then I switched my phone’s GPS to Remi’s address and kept going.
I’m still going. At this point, I’ve walked about thirteen point eight of the fifteen miles that separate our houses. It’s now two in the morning, and I have no intention of doing anything other than walking past the house like some sketchy nighttime creep.
I guess I’ll have to blame the wind for my change of plans. It kicks up out of nowhere, and I get a mouthful of street dust that still hasn’t been swept away from the winter, even though it’s that borderline time between late spring and early summer. The grit sticks between my teeth like grainy toothpaste—the kind they use on you at the dentist. Shudder.
It might be the dead of night and pitch black out, but by the light of the streetlights, I can see the clouds shifting overhead, blown around by a wind whipping hard enough to send me off my feet. It’s hard to inhale into it, but I do, getting a lungful of the fresh scent that warns that it’s going to pour. As if to confirm my suspicions, thunder crackles overhead, a distant rumble way off. It would make sense, given the heat of the day, that it’s going to storm.