Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“She’s less than half my age,” I say, and immediately see their expressions change. It happens instantly. Without missing a beat, they’ve gone from two inebriated women with a keen interest to borderline disgust. I keep going, my voice grimmer, as if I need to prove to myself how impossible this is. “She’s nineteen. I’m forty-two.”
“Oh,” the British woman says, leaning back, almost like she thinks I’m some kind of criminal. “Right, I see.”
“Yeah,” I grunt.
“She’s nineteen,” the British woman reiterates.
“Yep.”
“I don’t understand. Nineteen-year-olds look like kids to me.”
“She’s not a goddamned kid,” I snap. “She’s a tough, capable, mature woman.”
“At nineteen,” the British woman says with a laugh just as grim as mine. “I was a mother at nineteen and still an idiot. That girl doesn’t know what she wants—”
“Easy, Stacy,” the American says, touching her friend’s arm.
Her friend, Stacy, roughly pulls her hand away. She glares at me. I wonder if the man who impregnated her was older. Maybe she’s seeing some past demon. Or perhaps this is just straight-up wrong. This is most likely how most other people would react, too.
“Why can’t you find a woman your own age?” she demands.
“It’s not about her age,” I growl. “It’s about her. If she were ninety, I’d still want her. It’s about Katy. That’s all.”
“Oh, right, and I just bet you don’t do this sort of thing often, right? That’s the line you weirdo perverts usually give.”
The American pushes away from the bar, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. I think we’re going to sit someplace else.”
“Oh, please,” Stacy snaps, glaring at me. “As far away from the cradle robber as we can get.”
I don’t show any reaction on my face. I just watch coldly as the women walk to the other side of the bar, telling myself she’s wrong. There’s nothing twisted about my desire for Katy. I meant what I said. She could be the oldest woman alive, and I’d still need her. It goes beyond wrinkles, beyond years, beyond the flush of youth. I want Katy right down to her bones. It’s a primal certainty those women don’t know a damn thing about.
CHAPTER 8
Katy
“Does anybody else feel like they’re Hamlet, the skull, or something in between?” Eli says, wearing his heavy overcoat despite the morning sun, leaning on his cane as we walk across the street.
Mom doesn’t speak, wearing a coat as well, despite the relative heat. She’s drenched in sweat but hasn’t hinted at wanting medicine yet. The car is nothing special or wouldn’t be if it were on any other street. Here, the four-door, simple vehicle looks like space equipment.
I look up and down the street, wondering who delivered it. Was it Sam? But he said he was busy. We’re just another item on the Good Samaritan’s to-do list, and it’s not as if I can complain.
“Is this our chariot?” Eli says, waving a hand at the car.
A thought occurs to me. From the outside, we’d seem like a withdrawing drug addict, a schizophrenic, and a naïve teenager all climbing into a stranger’s car to go to a stranger’s house. It’s not a smart thing to do, but I’m not naïve. Eli’s not stupid, and Mom is far more than a drug addict.
“Yep, looks like it,” I say, taking the keys from the back of the car.
“What an adventure,” Eli says, his eyes getting a faraway watery quality as if he can’t wait to start. It was surprisingly easy to convince him. He won’t say it, but I think he’s scared his son will return.
Maybe it could be an adventure like Eli seems to think, but there’s also a chance we’re walking right into a trap. Or that could be an excuse to text Sam again. I know just texting will never be enough, but even that, the simple act of typing out words, makes me feel closer to him than I’ve felt to any man. Ever.
Last chance to tell me if this is a trick, I type. Because I’m about to climb into a car that a strange man left for me and go where he tells me to go. Some reassurance might be nice.
“What’s the holdup, my dear?” Eli says, shifting from foot to foot like he’s getting ready to make a run for it. “Second doubts abound. Do I spy it true?”
Mom rolls her eyes at me. I know she has less patience for Eli’s unique communication style than I do.
“I’m just…” What am I doing, exactly? I know that I’m wishing Sam was here. He’d place his hand on the small of my back, gently hold me, and whisper reassuringly that everything will be okay. “Checking something.”
I wait for maybe half a minute, shrouded in awkwardness since I can feel both Mom and Eli glaring at me. I bet Eli’s thinking about his son, and Mom’s thinking about her fix. Or the fact she’s letting her daughter lead her on an insane journey.