Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
“I’ll go back to work,” he said stubbornly, shaking his head as he looked up at me with his tired eyes that had perpetual laugh lines around them. That was a part of him I loved the most. I remembered how he’d always been smiling, laughing, and now that proof was permanently etched on his face.
My own sentimentality was something I wore proudly.
He’d always been so happy back in the day. And I used past tense because he was sick, his autoimmune disease wracking his body like a storm that wouldn’t ease up. And this current time left him unable to work, which I knew really bothered him.
My father was a proud man, the old-school type who felt he should be the provider.
It was my turn to take care of him now.
So that’s where me cutting back on classes at the community college and picking up another job came in, much to his disapproval.
“I don’t like the idea of you not finishing school.”
I rolled my eyes again and leaned down to fix the blanket on his lap, which he’d just about thrown off so he could stand.
“Dad, I’m not stopping college forever. I’m simply taking off a year so I can save enough money to make a nice nest egg. It's a little speed bump in life, that’s all.” I looked into his dark-brown eyes. “It’s really not a big deal. And given the fact that I was only going part-time to begin with, it’s really not like I’m going to fall too far behind.” I gave him a smile, one I hoped reached my eyes.
He grumbled something under his breath, and I did chuckle then.
“Besides, if the roles were reversed, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t do everything in your power to make sure I was able to rest and heal, which is exactly what you need.”
I didn’t tell him we needed me to get this job. His medical bills were rising, and the cost for his prescriptions was outrageous. And this was the only place that had called back for an interview.
I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for him to try to argue with me on my points. He knew I was right, even if he was stubborn.
His expression was stern, but finally his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair, conceding. He grumbled something I couldn’t quite hear, but I knew I’d won this argument.
“I have a job interview at a jazz club in the city.” This seemed to perk him up, jazz being his favorite type of music. More times than not, he’d have the radio playing softly in the background, pretending he was playing a saxophone.
When I was younger, it embarrassed the hell out of me, but now, at twenty-one, I was really fond of those memories.
The truth was, I’d applied to the jazz club in the city as almost an homage to my father, and, well, myself. I was making this extra money for him, so it seemed fitting to be able to work at a club that played music he was passionate about. I just hoped I got the job, because the sooner I could start working, the sooner I could make money and ease the strain.
Before I left, I made sure he had the TV remote, a bottle of water, a bag of pretzels—his favorite, ’cause they were extra salty and dry as hell—and of course his ancient flip phone right beside him.
I gave him a kiss on the forehead and left, locking up behind me and adjusting my purse over my shoulder as I headed down the apartment complex stairs. I pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped outside, the weather not as cold as it normally was for this time of year. They were predicting flurries later this evening, but the shit weather didn’t bother me, especially since I was only walking a few blocks to the jazz club.
Living in the city had its pros and cons. We didn’t live in the best part of town, but then again, unless you were rolling in money, chances were you couldn’t afford one of the luxury spots. But our neighborhood wasn’t awful, and we were close enough to the park, as well as shopping.
Before my father was too sick to leave the house, he’d take me to the park, and we’d walk the lake a couple of times, talking about everything and nothing at all. Ever since my mother passed away when I was twelve years old, it had just been Pops and me.
We’d become best friends, so the very thought of him so sick ate away at me. I also knew he hated not being able to provide. But he’d worked so hard while I was growing up, allowing me to go to school and not worry about rent or paying for groceries or even helping with bills, that I felt it was my responsibility to pick up the slack.