Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
It takes an extra minute to battle away the heat in my cheeks. “Wanna come see your new desk?”
Excitement launches her out of her seat. “You’re finished?!”
“With that.” Offering her an open palm is done at the same time I proclaim, “There’s still a shit ton of things for me to do in there. Painting and building your desk were just the beginning.”
And considering the fact that no one wants to fucking hire me, I welcome the project to keep me distracted from the bleak truth that I’m fucking hopeless. Not worth the goddamn ink I spill on the applications or paper they’re printed on. I wish I could say some shit like this is all because I’m being picky about pay or position. I wish I fucking had that type of luxury. But I don’t. I’ve applied for everything I possibly can from custodial staff at the gym to loading dock supervisor at Crack That. I haven’t gotten a single. Fucking. Hit. Jaye keeps saying these things take time. Her fucking optimism is obnoxiously infectious. It’s how we ended up living together in the first place, remember?
“I can’t wait ‘til it’s totally complete!” She gleefully exclaims as though she didn’t hear a word I said. “Can we paint quotes on the wall or is that too much? Should I go simpler? Maybe just framed quotes?” A large gasp escapes during our stepping into the entry way. “What about if I hire McCoy to come over and do an elaborate mural?! He does that type of shit on the side, you know.”
“Can we hold off on contracting my only job out to another man for a little longer?” I playfully tease while we begin ascending the stairs. “Not sure my ego can survive that fucking hit.”
My girlfriend giggles and squeezes my hand in support. “Whatever you do in there is going to be amazing. I just know it.”
We slowly climb towards the top passing framed photos of us placed staggered on the wall.
Her idea. Which…I won’t lie. I fucking love it. I love seeing photos of us together smiling or laughing or kissing whether I’m coming or going. I fucking love that our…relationship is the first thing you see when you step into our house. Our world. Our…sanctuary. Having our pictures on display proves that her saying this place is ours, isn’t all talk. Jaye is definitely a woman not afraid of actions and as someone who isn’t the best with words, I hope my own are reflecting my shared mindset. What I don’t love is the empty hook that’s waiting for my dog tags. The last thing I want is that fucking haunting horror among my happier moments. She thinks they deserve respect and celebration despite the unfortunate circumstances while I’m not so quickly sold on that death before dishonor bullshit I once was.
Our strolling down the opposite hall of my bathroom – fuck, I can hardly believe I have my own bathroom – exposes two different stacks of boxes for explaining. I start by pointing to the left. “Those are filled with Chris’s personal belongings. Awards. Accommodations. Degrees. Framed milestones.” My free finger is tossed the other direction. “Those are filled with supplies you might wanna look through for yourself or donate to a local school. Pens, paper, stationary, and equipment – like his fax machine, copier, computer monitors, ect.”
As we creep closer to the room at a very slow pace, she inquires, “Did you find anything more personal? Like something I would wanna keep? Like old photos of us? Or a trinket that reminded him of me? Maybe the receipt I had framed from our first date? I have a box filled with that sort of stuff and just wanna make sure it all stays together.”
Fuck me. This is uncomfortable.
I can barely keep my voice from straining itself during the answering. “No.”
“Oh.”
Fuck, that sound hurts.
And I’m not even the one who’s clearly feeling discarded here.
Unsure of how to properly comfort Jaye about her dead fiancé who clearly didn’t give a fuck about her like she believed he did, I do my best to force on a polite grin and redirect her attention to something more positive. “I really like the purple accent wall. Goes really well the gray.”
Her warm smile returns yet is cut short by a huge gasp the instant we’re in the room. “This place looks incredible!”
Grateful to have Jaye happy again, I release her hand to allow her the opportunity to freely explore the space. “You picked it.”
“You painted it.”
I casually cross over to the desk, the only piece of furniture in the room at this point and rest my ass on the edge.
“And you polished the floor.” Her open palm dramatically slaps her chest. “Look at it! I can basically see myself in it.”