Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Oh yeah.” He runs to the back passenger door, pulling it open and grabbing the soccer ball that he throws by his feet. I walk over to the trunk and press the button to pop it open. For the past six months, the nest egg I had when I left Winston was depleted faster than I could imagine. It’s a fraction of what it was six months ago. Every single month, I feel like it’s smaller and smaller. I don’t have much left, that is for sure.
I knew it would happen, but I didn’t know that he would fight me tooth and nail for everything. And I mean everything. I was in and out of court so often I’m surprised I couldn’t get a job there. My lawyer was also very fast with sending me his bill. A bill that if I didn’t pay, he wouldn’t show up to court. In the end, I realized he was just in it for the money and couldn't care less that Winston was dragging me to court for stupidity and wasting everyone’s time, including the court’s. I mean, I knew it was coming, but what I didn’t count on was him becoming so obsessed with ruining my life, to the point I would be run out of not one but two other apartments. He would show up at all hours of the day causing a scene, and no one wanted to deal with that. Plus, since it was month-to-month, it was easy for them to throw me out. Except for the last place with Mr. Mendelson. He wasn’t caving, but the Cartwrights were making his life a living hell, and I wasn’t going to put the only man who had helped me in the past six months through any more of their shit. It was enough that I couldn’t get a fucking job anywhere, also because of them. It didn’t matter that I was overqualified to pump gas; it would always be the same. “We’ll let you know.” I even caught them throwing my résumé in the trash before I walked out the door. They may have taken a tumble down when Winston’s brother killed two people by drunk driving, but their reach was still long.
Grabbing one of the top boxes labeled kitchen, I look over at Wyatt, who is kicking the ball one way and then running over to kick it back over.
“I’ll be inside,” I tell Wyatt, who looks up at me and then nods before I step up to the house. I walk straight past the stairs to the back of the house, where the kitchen is located. Rounding the corner, I come to the big kitchen that is my main focus. Putting the box on the big granite counter, I turn to see the eight-burner stove and double oven, and a huge double-door stainless-steel fridge. It’s the only thing that looks like it’s been preserved in the house. I walk over and run my hand on top of the stove with the red knobs, itching to try it out. Instead, I rush back out to the car to grab the rest of our things before I go back and make another trip. I walk over to the kitchen sink that faces the yard and open the windows. As I walk out of the house, I stop at every window to open it and get a breeze going in the house. This house does not have a central air conditioner, so we’ll have to tough it out.
As I jog down the front steps, my eyes go to Wyatt, who is still kicking his soccer ball around the side of the house. The sound of a door slamming has my eyes roam from my son to the house next door, which looks like it should be on the cover of Old Victorian Houses in the South. It’s the prettiest house I’ve ever seen and looks like it’s just been newly painted. The owner of the house walks down the front steps wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his head down until he gets to his red pickup truck. I see his head turn to look over to Wyatt, and then he slowly looks over at me. I think I gasp when I see it’s Brady Thatcher. His eyes are covered by aviator glasses, but I know those green eyes that hide under them. He’s glared at me enough over the years for me to have them engrained in my brain. He does a double take before he opens the door to his truck and gets in. He’s shaking his head, no doubt wondering what the fuck I’m doing here. “You aren’t the only one, buddy.” I unload the car, and by the time I make the second round, it’s almost dark.
I grab the fresh bread I picked up this morning and make us both sandwiches with a side of chips. It's not the healthiest meal, but for today, it’ll do. After dinner, I close the windows as we head upstairs where the bathtub water pressure could be stronger, but my body aches from packing and unpacking the last couple of days.