Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 51122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
“You don’t care that you won’t see your great-grandbabies graduate?” That was Phoebe. When had she gotten there?
I turned to survey Bayou’s wife. “I care. But what I also care about is that I’ve actually been a prisoner of war once. There are things I just won’t do, and that’s stay here where I’m a prisoner and be forced to do something I don’t want to do. And you blackmailing me with those great-grandkids of mine won’t work. I’ll live for as long as I live, and that’s final.”
Bayou’s wife started to cry then, and I rolled my eyes. “Dear God. Please, Lord above, save me from these hormonal women!”
“I can’t believe you made my wife cry,” Bayou grumbled.
I flipped him off and put the branding iron in the water bucket next to the fire. “Y’all stay here for a minute. I have to take a leak.”
The three of them started to talk as I moseyed into the woods.
And when I noticed that they were all preoccupied, I veered to my bike instead. Then, without a word, I started it up and roared straight out of my yard.
Ten minutes later, I walked my happy ass into Walmart wearing my mask, my beard hanging low out of it like a 50s granny panty underwear ad, and got myself my cream, Depends, and a twelve-pack of beer.
When I got back home, it was to get a glare from all of them.
“Does your mask say fuck on it?” Phoebe gasped.
I pulled it off. “Yeah. I had an old lady make it for me. Now move out of my way. I gotta sanitize.”
Book: One Chance, Fancy
CHAPTER 11
Having kids makes you realize how dumb you used to sound like to your parents.
-Casten’s secret thoughts
CASTEN
I walked into the house from a long day of work, fully expecting my wife to meet me at the door.
She didn’t.
I knew why.
It was the same reason she never met me at the door on our wedding anniversary.
She wanted me to see her in her wedding dress.
Or that was what I expected when she didn’t meet me at the door.
Instead, what I got was her rushing at me in the white dress I married her in, looking at me with her whole heart in her eyes.
“Take me for a ride on your bike,” she ordered, throwing herself at me.
I caught her easily, pulling her into my arms.
Her dirty wedding dress made the smile on my face grow even wider.
“You want to go on a ride in that?” I teased.
She nodded. “I’ve spent the entire day homeschooling the kids. My mom’s here to watch them, and we’re going to use this time wisely. Now, take me for a ride or lose me forever.”
I pulled her into my arms. “Show me the way you want to leave home, honey.”
She pressed her mouth to mine, and then even though I was tired as hell, I walked her back to my bike, handed off her helmet, fitted mine in place, and then helped her get on behind me.
Once the dress was situated, she said, “This Coronavirus thing needs to die in hell. I’m ready to get back to normal.”
I agreed. This definitely wasn’t the anniversary that I saw coming.
However, it was the one we were given, and at least we were alive to celebrate it.
“Want to go to Whataburger?” I called when we met our first stop sign, ignoring the looks from the car beside us who looked at my girl like the weirdo she was.
She looked at me with her heart in her eyes. “I’d go anywhere with you.”
So that was exactly what we did.
For our fifteenth wedding anniversary, in her wedding dress, we went for a ride down the back roads of Uncertain, Texas. Rode to Whataburger forty minutes away, and she dripped fancy ketchup down the middle of her boobs, staining her bodice.
The red stain joined the tomato sauce one from our first wedding anniversary. The shit stains from our second—gotta love having young children. The throw up stains from our fifth—battling morning sickness during the first eight weeks of pregnancy was tough on my girl.
It also joined a multitude of others, including the one from last year—beer. We’d sat on our back deck for hours until we were both so drunk, we could barely hold up our beer.
But those stains didn’t matter. That stain was just one more memory we’d have of our beautiful, crazy life together.
Book: Vodka on the Rocks
CHAPTER 12
Can an OBGYN tell who does kegels? Like do they look at certain vaginas and say, “Man, your vagina is ripped?”
-Downy to Memphis
DOWNY
“Baby,” Memphis said. “It’s going to be all right.”
I looked over at my wife, my heart in my throat. “But they’re supposed to get married. I was supposed to walk her down the aisle.”
“I know.” She wrapped her arms around my shoulders.