Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
The old house was noisy as I padded toward the kitchen. The hardwoods groaned under my weight, and even from the hall, I heard the fridge humming its pleas for retirement. From the air conditioner that sounded like it was following its dream of becoming a freight train to the horror-movie-worthy scream of my back door, everything needed an overhaul. My to-do list was almost two decades long.
Ah, the joys of home ownership.
Sipping my coffee, I got busy checking my daily voicemails.
“Hello, Mr. West, this is—” Delete.
“Hi there, I’m looking for—” Delete.
“Mr. West. Me again. If you could please—” Delete.
“Hey, asshole.”
My finger hovering over the delete button stilled as I recognized Daniel’s voice.
“It’s that time of year again when the wife insists on throwing me a birthday party no matter how many times I’ve begged her not to.”
I flipped my wrist and looked at the date on my watch. Shit. I’d totally forgotten that his birthday was coming up.
“Anyway, consider this your official invitation. No pressure or anything, but also, maybe show up and save me from three hours of small talk with people I don’t like. We’ll probably have enough food to feed a small country. So come hungry. Hit me back.”
I tapped the trashcan icon and made a mental note to renew his annual beer-of-the-month subscription.
The last voicemail started playing immediately and I basked in the sender’s frustrated tone.
“Mr. West, I need you to answer me. I—” Delete.
Amusing as it was, I did not have time for that shit. It was still early, but it wouldn’t be long before my work phone started ringing.
Working with veterans was my passion, but it didn’t matter how long they’d been in the civilian sector—they all still operated on military time. By zero six thirty, every single one of them had already finished PT, showered, shaved, and scarfed down some chow and was ready to kick the day in the ass. Myself included most of the time.
But today was different. Today was Wednesday.
And I had a date.
A massive smile stretched my face. I was far from being known as Mr. Cheerful, but I wouldn’t say a grin was rare. Though, on Wednesday mornings, it was a permanent fixture.
Wednesday afternoons were a different story.
I dreaded them.
Agonized.
Turned myself inside out with stomach-churning anxiety.
But first, I got the morning—the sweet before the soul-crushing sour.
Ignoring the relentless ringing of my phone, I rushed through breakfast. Robotically, I went through the motions of preparing the usual: four scrambled eggs with yellow peppers, turkey sausage, a protein shake, and enough fresh fruit to open a produce stand. After that, it was a quick shower, a stop in the closet to get dressed for the day, and lastly, a drive-by at the coffee maker to snag my second cup of joe.
And then I was home.
Not home as in the building that had my name on the deed or the space where I laid my head each night. But truly home.
With her.
“Hey, baby,” I cooed when her angelic face appeared on my computer screen.
She didn’t immediately reply, as she was too busy playing with a set of plastic farm animals. I’d given them to her for her third birthday, but she’d only recently rediscovered them at the bottom of her toybox.
“Kaitlyn,” I called at the same time her mother urged her to focus on the screen.
Her head popped up, brown curls bouncing wildly. “Oh, hey, Daddy.”
My heart stopped at those two syllables. It didn’t matter how many times I’d heard it. Each and every time she uttered the word daddy, it temporarily illuminated the black hole inside me.
“Hey, pretty girl. How was your week?”
Her round face hardened, and her brown eyes narrowed as though she were a surly teenager rather than my five-year-old princess. Leaning forward on her elbows, she put her button nose only a few inches from the camera. “This was the worst week ever!”
“Uh, oh,” I mumbled, leaning back in my office chair. My girl loved to talk, and if this had been the worst week ever, I needed to go ahead and make myself comfortable.
“I hate school. Hate. It.”
“Why?” I chuckled at her fury.
“First, they told us Mrs. Rowell isn’t coming back to school. She had that stinky, rotten baby and forgot all about us.”
“Hey,” I scolded. “That’s not nice.”
She still hadn’t moved away from the camera, so I couldn’t see her face as much as up her nose. “Babies poop their pants, Dad! All of us in class use the potty like big kids. But nooooooo, Mrs. Rowell wants to stay home with that, that”—she paused for a half second before finishing with what had clearly become the foulest of all four-letter words—”baby.”
Slapping on a face full of outrage, I whispered, “How dare she?”
“And then they made Mr. Ward our teacher!”
Now, I had no clue who Mr. Ward was, but the way her voice hit a pitch that was usually only audible to dogs, I knew it had to be bad. Who knew preschool could be so tumultuous?