Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Nice job,” I said, holding up my hand for a high five.
“Thanks.”
“We need to clean the bearing. Your board is squeaky.”
“How do you clean ’em?” he asked, tilting his helmet so he could see me better.
“You use special skate cream. Sometimes it comes in a lube bottle,” I replied.
“Charlie has some by his bed.”
“Excuse me?”
“He usually puts it in his nightstand, but sometimes he forgets and he leaves it out. He has a flashlight in there too. It doesn’t look like a regular flashlight, though. It shakes when you turn it on,” Oliver continued conversationally.
I bit back my smile and nodded. “That’s…clever.”
“Uh huh.” He waited a beat, then added, “Maybe you should tell him a joke.”
“What do you mean?”
“So he’s not mad at you anymore.”
I almost clutched my chest in pain. I nodded mutely and mumbled, “Right.”
“I have a book of jokes you can borrow,” Ollie said.
“Thanks, Ol. He’s not mad at me, though.”
“Oh. Don’t you like him anymore?”
“Of course, I do. I—yeah, of course.”
“Grown-ups are weird,” Ollie huffed as he picked up his skateboard. “If you still like him, you should tell him because I think he’s sad…and you are too. And if he’s mad, you should tell him a joke. It’s very simple. Don’t make it harder than it has to be, Ky.”
I stared after him as he headed toward the house. Wouldn’t it be nice to have that kind of conviction again? To keep the past where it belonged and live in the present with a clear conscience and a sense of wonder. Wouldn’t it be nice to believe everything in life could be easily resolved if you were just brave enough?
Like Charlie.
* * *
When I needed space and time to think, I went to the beach. It was instinctive. Like something in my blood that called to me. Or maybe I was hearing voices, I mused as I headed west on Sunset, hitting every damn traffic light on my way home. It was rush hour. What the hell did I expect? By the time I pulled in front of my place, I didn’t want to be there. So, I grabbed my skateboard and a helmet and rode down to the park.
I secured my earbuds, blasting classic rock as I wore myself out doing acrobatic twists at high speed. I don’t know how long I skateboarded. An hour, maybe two? I didn’t stop until I recognized a few new patrons. The last thing I wanted to do was shoot the shit with the locals. I didn’t want to talk about my life, my music, my family…none of that mattered. And it would matter even less if I left town, so what was the fucking point?
Except I didn’t want to go anywhere. This was home. It was almost home. Real home was Charlie and—
And that was when it hit me. Maybe I really was making it harder than it had to be.
I pulled out my cell and dialed my sister.
“Oh, hey. How’s it going? I was going to call you to see if—”
“Where does Dad live?” I interrupted. “I mean, what’s his address?”
She hesitated for a second before rattling off the info. “Are you okay, Ky?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then he’s the last person you should talk to. Come to my house. Have you eaten? I made corn chowder.”
“Thanks. I’ll be all right. Later, Sis.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I skidded to a stop on my board in front of a nondescript box of a house off Rose Avenue. I checked the address my sister gave me against the numbers affixed to the mailbox under the single lantern illuminating the porch. Then I moved along the path, set my board and helmet beside the doormat and knocked. No answer. I tried again before glancing over my shoulder at the front yard. It was all lawn, no flowers or trees to soften the expanse of green. I could practically see Charlie pointing out the perfect spot for a hydrangea bush to spice up the curb appeal. I closed my eyes against the sudden wave of pain and lifted my fist to knock a third time just as the door swung open.
“It’s you.”
I gave my father a thorough once-over. Ed Baldwin was six one and painfully thin. His blue eyes softened his otherwise harsh angular features and ghostly pallor. I hadn’t seen him in a few years, but he didn’t look well. Maybe he really was sick or maybe he’d been eaten alive by a life of bitterness.
He opened the door wider and stepped back before inclining his head in invitation. The small entry led directly to the living area. The low ceilings, dirty beige carpet, broken vertical blinds, and the sunken sofa cushions made me think this was a rental. My father had always been a stickler for basic cleanliness and order. This place smelled like defeat.