Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
I have three goals right now: Keep the baby safe. Keep the baby secret. Finish my LPN. There’s no room for anything else. My dad’s debts were cleared at the great cost of the rest of my life—the broken heart I carry around and the grandchild of his I’m carrying and the hazardous future that child would have if their father ever found out about them.
I smirk when I realize I’m drinking tea out of my Goal Getter mug, the one I bought myself when I made an A in my first nursing class several years ago. Instead of the pride I felt when I bought the mug like a trophy for myself, I feel ashamed now. I let all that time pass without finishing my coursework, and I’ve made so many mistakes along the way.
I’m alone, pregnant, broke, and tethered to a gambling addict dad whose house I live in, whose bathroom I share. I’ve done so many things wrong in my life. I want to do the right thing now, keep my baby safe and make a home for us together.
I apply online to work at a convenience store. I can stock sodas and check people out, sell cigarettes and lotto tickets. It’s above minimum wage and I can use the flexible hours to work on my degree. It’s a no brainer, I think, that this would be good job for me right now. It would accommodate my schedule taking a class or two and going to prenatal appointments.
I don’t mind working late nights. I’ll sleep in the mornings, drink plenty of water, take a walk in the sunshine. I type the plan into my reminder scheduling app and then make a list of things I need to do. Get prenatal vitamins. Start a savings plan. Register for a class or two.
I’ll come up with something to tell my dad later. It shouldn’t be too complicated to avoid his questions since he doesn’t ask them.
Spelling out a plan makes me feel better. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
As long as I don’t let myself think about Jack at all.
I just have a sinking feeling that’s easier said than done.
18
JACK
“How you doin’ today?” Ronnie asks me.
He heard what happened from Foz, I guess. Who could resist the gossip that the don of the Marino family got dumped in the back room of a bar by a part-time waitress? The guys are only human after all. I feel my jaw tighten, the tension bristle through me.
“I’m good, Ron. How are you?”
“I’m doin’ fine. Just wanted to check in on you. You did so good by me when I was out with my surgery, and it seems like the thing to do, return the favor.”
“My prostate’s fine,” I quip.
He gives a wheezy chuckle. “I still can’t thank ya enough for watchin’ out for the old place when I was out of commission. If there’s anything I can ever do—have yous around for a barbecue this weekend maybe?” he offers. I’m getting a pity invite from an employee. My pride can barely handle this hit.
“That’s real nice of you,” I say, “wish I could accept, but I’m all booked up.” I lie with a straight face. All I have planned for this weekend is to be bitter about Serena Mayfield.
“That’s good to hear, boss,” he says like he’s encouraging some kid.
“Thanks again, Ronnie. Did you need anything?”
“Nah, just checkin’ up on ya,” he says fondly.
“Tell Foz to concentrate on slinging drinks,” I say wryly.
“Not sure it’ll do any good, but I can try,” he responds.
I finish tying my sneakers and head back to my home gym. One thing’s for sure, my workouts are getting the time they deserve. It turns out that any upper body work hurts like hell with my stitches, so it’s leg day every day. I turn the volume to max and zone out while I follow along with the workout. Interval training at least shuts off my brain. The sweat burns my eyes, and I can barely breathe. I cue up another session and push through.
This time I’m so winded, my muscles trying to cramp, that I can’t dissociate. My thoughts go in a loop, chasing each other through my mind.
She said she was so happy with me.
The loop repeats again and again. At last, I stumble over to stretch and drink some water. I remind myself what I know to be true.
Her eyes brighten when she sees me.
Her smile heals my soul.
I lay on the mat, trying to let my body cool down. I toy with the idea of funding a scholarship specifically for her, something with a living stipend tied to it so she can’t use it to bail out her father. That’s controlling, I realize.
It makes me uncomfortable that I want to make her decisions for her, that I feel entitled to dictate what she would spend a stipend on. I could just tell my finance guy I want her taken care of. He could arrange for expenses, a line of credit, some kind of restriction to keep her from liquidating assets to give her father’s debtors. But I don’t want to outsource this or her.