Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Jesus, Dad, you know I don’t run.” I shoved his letter and the postcard back into the envelope. In truth, I loved running. I just couldn’t disassociate it from the worst day of my life. “Also, where am I going to release your ashes?” I shook my head.
A knock on my bedroom door startled me. I blew out a breath.
“Open!”
“It’s me,” Mom piped from the other side. For some reason, I wasn’t relieved she wasn’t Row. She wedged her head between the door and the wall. “Well?”
I picked up the envelope and raised it, smiling with exhaustion.
Mom cupped her mouth, suppressing a gasp. “What did he ask you for?”
“To spread his ashes somewhere nice and make sure you move on and make out with someone on the couch.”
“Oh dear.” She blinked, digesting my words. “He was heavily medicated the last few weeks.”
I snorted. “No, Mom. He loved you enough to want you to be happy, even if it’s not with him. That’s a good thing.”
She struggled to swallow, waving a hand in the air. “Too soon to talk about this.”
I decided to change the subject. “He also asked me to take up running again.”
She bit down on her lower lip, toeing a circle on the carpet through her silk slippers. Semus materialized from behind her, meowing and looping himself through her legs. He curled his tail around her ankle and gave me a Bitch’s still here? look.
I picked you up from the shelter, you ass.
“Mamushka, was it really that important to him I run again?” I asked. Though I already knew the answer. Yes. The way I’d given up on my passion, and the unknown reason for it, was traumatic for everyone in my household. My parents never quite believed my story of how I got the injuries. I still limped whenever I was excited or exhausted, even though I had gotten the all-clear from my doctor years ago.
“You were really good at it,” she admitted, wincing apologetically. “It made you happy, and your smile was his favorite view.”
“Well, I’m too rusty.” I slammed the envelope into my nightstand drawer, banging it shut. “I can barely walk without breaking a sweat,” I lied. I was in good shape from years of bussing tables and navigating through New York carless.
“There are seventy-year-olds running marathons.” She readjusted the belt of her robe. “Besides, you seem in great shape to me.”
“It’s not that simple,” I huffed.
Running wasn’t just about running. It was also about other things. It signified pain, humiliation, and uncertainty for me. Besides, if God wanted us to run, why had He invented Zumba and Pilates? They were so much more fun.
“Simple? No.” She rapped her knuckles over my doorframe. “Worth it? Definitely. I don’t think he wanted to make your life easy, though.”
“No?” I looked at her miserably. “What did he want to make my life, then?”
“Better. Good night, Callichka.”
“Good night, Mamushka.”
ROW
oBITCHuary: Do you have a girlfriend?
McMonster: ???
oBITCHuary: I just realized I never asked.
McMonster: What does it matter?
oBITCHuary: Dunno. It just does. Would you answer? It’s not a government secret.
oBITCHuary: (It isn’t a government secret, right? Because I have the tendency to get myself into all sorts of unideal situations…and let’s just say, I cannot take part in a witness protection program. I’d blow my cover before I chose a new name. In fact, how can one choose a new name? It’s gonna take me forever. SO many options.)
McMonster: I don’t have a girlfriend.
oBITCHuary: Boyfriend?
McMonster: No.
oBITCHuary: ANY kind of sexual/intimate partner?
McMonster: The answer is no.
oBITCHuary: Same for me.
McMonster: I know. We’ve discussed it.
oBITCHuary: Why are you single? Haven’t found the right girl yet?
McMonster: Oh, I found her.
oBITCHuary: Then what is the problem?
McMonster: Only one of us fell.
oBITCHuary: Wow. I cannot imagine not falling for someone like you. Silly girl.
McMonster: That’s the worst part, though.
McMonster: She isn’t silly at all. She is fucking brilliant.
ROW
Well, well, well. If it wasn’t the consequences of my fucking actions.
I was breaking out in fucking hives. And why wouldn’t I be? I was allergic to Cal Litvin—and about to spend a whole lot of time with her. All because of Rhy, that thundercunt, who’d decided to make a point. If money was what she needed, I could’ve written her checks to keep her away.
Yet here I was, about to pick Cal up for her first shift at the restaurant because Little Miss Broke Ass didn’t have a bike to her name, let alone a car. Her mom did own a car, but she also had errands to run. It always amazed me, the lengths I went to for my sister and mother. They had talked me into this disastrous arrangement.
“Rowy, you smell so good! Is that a new aftershave?” Mom crooned as soon as I walked through her door, the scent of her eggplant parmesan hanging thick in the air.