Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
She pulls a box cutter from the pocket of her long, flowing skirt and slices open the brown cardboard box with practiced ease. I’m pretty sure she’s not supposed to open the inventory in front of me and the other girls who are here, but it’s not stopping her.
Lizzy didn't grow up in this town. She moved here when she discovered her long-lost grandfather, Walter. She lives with him in his farmhouse and helps out at the shop part-time.
She holds up a book with a big muscled purple guy on the front. It's a model that a cover designer applied a filter to, so he’d look shimmery and purple. She giggles. “Now, let’s talk about the abs.”
“No, let’s talk about the appendage. That’s what we’re all here for anyway,” Sadie, another customer, cackles. Like Lizzy, she moved here a few weeks ago and started a donut shop. She’s sweet sunshine with an easy smile for everyone.
Today, she’s dressed in blue jeans and a colorful t-shirt with a deep V-neck. Her black hair is in a messy bun piled on top of her head. She pauses to readjust the square black frames on her face.
I haven’t been inside her shop yet, but every time I pass the place, I want to stop in and grab a hot treat for myself.
Maybe this Friday, I’ll finally indulge and get one. I remember Greer’s words from earlier today. I love your body. These curves are a fuckin’ masterpiece. Now, who the hell made you feel bad about them? Give me a name.
Just remembering the intensity in his gaze when he said that makes me shiver. I’ve never had someone defend me. I never knew it would make me feel warm and gooey inside.
“No, it’s the tattoos that get me,” Dotty says. She’s also new to town. She’s an intern working at The Courage Chronicle, the town’s newspaper. She says she wants to be a journalist, but the editor only thinks she’s qualified to grab coffee. She told me that with an eye roll before book club.
Her curly red hair cascades down her back like a curtain. She keeps twirling one lock around her finger while she talks. She’s wearing black yoga pants with a red flannel jacket over top of a white t-shirt.
She taps her combat boots against the floor, a soft thrumming rhythm. She’s constantly in motion with an enthusiastic, contagious energy. She continues, “I didn’t even realize I was into tattoos until recently.”
“Me either, especially arm ones,” I answer, thinking again of Greer. I’m not going to go on a date with him. That would be crazy, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t notice the cowboy is well-built.
I start to tell the girls about him but then change my mind. They’d probably encourage me to go out with him. I don’t need them breaking down my already fragile resolve any further.
When book club is finally over, I spend a few more hours at work before making the drive to the neighboring town of Sweetgrass River. The trip takes almost an hour. I hate every minute of it. I hate being so far away from my brothers. I worry they’ll need me, and I won’t be there for them.
As soon as I put my car in park, I send a text to the prepaid cellphone that Chase always has on. I let him know I’m arriving, so he doesn’t startle. He and Parker easily startle. It’s what happens when you’re raised by a junkie mom who eventually abandons you.
After the notification that my text has been read, I push open the door to the little hotel room. I hate this place with its weird, musty smell and water stains on the ceiling. I hate the way it feels like we’ll never rise above poverty.
But as usual, I swallow down everything and put a smile on my face. I can’t fix our messed-up lives, but I can give them an older sister with a sunny smile and a positive outlook.
“I brought pasta,” I tell the boys as I hold up the bag of pasta cans. It will get better. Life has to get better at some point…right?
Chase and Parker are at the kitchenette table with the rickety chairs. Chase is ten, and he’s playing on the phone. He barely even spares me a glance. His headphones are on his ears, but the blue button isn’t lit up, which means he can hear me. “Did you do your homework?”
He doesn’t bother answering, and I open my mouth to lecture him. School is important. Otherwise, you end up working menial jobs and scraping by like me. I don’t want that for him. I want him and Parker to succeed, to know what it’s like to have full bellies and shoes without holes.
Before I can start on Chase, Parker pushes the cracked school tablet toward me. He’s seven years old, and he’s already reading at a fifth-grade level. He still thinks that studying is cool. He taps the picture of the house on the real estate website.