Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
It was impossible not to love him.
For most of his life, my parents homeschooled Mano as they traveled the world. When he was about to enter his first year of high school, Mano said he wanted to get the high school experience and asked our parents if he could live with me during the school year and attend a local private school. We all agreed to the idea. I wasn’t going to complain for a second about having my brother around for the school year. It was nice to have family around. I missed the jerk when he spent holidays and summers with our parents.
“Mom and Dad asked if you were coming to Thanksgiving, seeing how you missed the holidays last year,” Mano said as I poured him a glass of ice water.
“I told you I have to work for Thanksgiving.”
“Ayumu doesn’t have to work on Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, Ayumu doesn’t work as hard as I do. Besides, I can’t drop everything and fly to Hawaii for the holidays.”
“Why? I do. Mom and Dad said they’d also pay for you to come.”
“I don’t need their money,” I said with a slight grit.
“Dude.” Mano sat back on his barstool and shrugged his shoulders. “Say you don’t like holidays with the family because our parents emotionally damaged you for fifteen years. Facing your trauma is the right way to do that.”
Gen Z was all about diving into one’s trauma, grabbing it by the horns, and riding that crap into the sunset. When I was Mano’s age, I didn’t even know what trauma was. I knew that life sucked, and I resented my parents for it. As a millennial, I did what most of us did regarding trauma. I sent self-deprecating memes to my friends, worked longer hours so I wouldn’t have to face my emotions, and buried said trauma deep, deep down while reminiscing about how great 90s music was.
“Okay, therapist Mano. Thank you for that tip.”
“I’m just saying, man. The sooner you face your demons, the sooner you can set them free.”
“I prefer to keep my demons close to me. Helps me sleep at night.”
I expected somewhat of a chuckle from Mano, but instead, he gave me a pathetic look that made me want to spiral into emo music. Emo music from the early 2000s, of course, because I was a millennial.
“I get that you don’t do holidays with Mom and Dad. It was fine before because you had Penelope—”
“Don’t, Mano—”
“I know, I know, don’t say her name. But now that you don’t spend holidays with her, the idea of you celebrating them alone is sad, man.”
“Who said I’m alone? Jack will be with me.”
“Please don’t say you’re talking about Jack Daniels.”
I was talking about Jack Daniels. What did it matter, anyway? Holidays were a corporate money grab to put people into debt and force them to spend time with family members that were the root cause of their therapy bills.
“But, Kai, with Penelope—”
I felt rage bubble in my gut the second time Mano brought up that woman’s name, but I worked hard not to showcase my anger in front of him like our father used to do in front of me.
I gave him a tight smile. “How about we change the subject?” I asked, moving away from the bar and grabbing a rag. I began aggressively wiping down the countertops, trying to shut off my brain from overthinking about Penelope.
She was the last person I wanted on my mind.
Still, sometimes she snuck into my thoughts uninvited.
I didn’t need Mano bringing her up all willy-nilly like that. It was enough to ruin a whole month for me. I’d worked hard over the past two years to overcome losing her. She was the last thing I wanted to think about the week before the restaurant opened.
“Fine. Tell me about your morning. Did anything exciting happen?” Mano asked, downing his water.
The bubble of rage only intensified as I remembered my morning. I felt a slight twitch in my eye as my mind instantly went to the shattering of the alcohol bottles and Olive Oyl slicing her hand open. I grumbled and moved toward the tables throughout the restaurant to wipe them down. “Nothing worth talking about.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I’m sure.”
Three years ago
“Are you sure?” I asked.
I didn’t know a heart could shatter so deeply after thinking it was about to celebrate the possibility of bringing a new life into the world.
“Are you sure?” I repeated, sitting across from the doctor’s desk. In my right hand was Penelope’s, her fingers linked with mine. I’d never held a person’s hand so tight as her fingers trembled in my grip. I felt nauseous. Faint, almost.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I’m sure.” The doctor flipped through his file. “Unfortunately, I am. We’ve reviewed the paperwork multiple times, showing that Penelope has Stage 3 cancer. It’s a very rare type, and we can get her started on treatments right away and—”