Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 217(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
I’ve long suspected that Kenzie’s been struggling to come to terms with something besides her near-death experience for a while now. I’m convinced I caught a glimpse of that something last weekend. Whatever it is, it’s bad enough that she’s willing to run out on her best friend in order to avoid discussing it. She’s already on the defensive; me bringing the issue up out of nowhere will only send her sprinting in the opposite direction, like a cat who doesn’t want to be caught.
Kenzie opens a box of what appears to be soaps and lotions from where I’m standing. I smooth out my beard. Maybe she could use some time alone to decompress in her new space. Regardless of the current tensions between her and Holly, they’ve been like sisters since they were kids. Not having her only family around is gonna take getting used to.
“I’ll go start on dinner,” I tell her.
I’m barely out the door when I hear the crash and clatter.
“Shit,” Kenzie hisses.
I rush back into the bedroom.
Lipsticks and other cosmetics I don’t have names for litter the hardwood in front of her closet. I drop to one knee beside her and begin helping her gather the scattered items.
She picks up a pink lipstick with a cracked-open top. “I don’t even know why I brought all this makeup. It’s not like I ever wear it.”
“Why’d you have it then?”
“They were gifts.” She doesn’t have to say they were from Holly; her best friend’s the only make-up artist we know.
Her face scrunches as she struggles not to cry.
She whispers, “Why do I always mess things up?”
Until now, I’ve been hesitant to so much as hold her hand. Now that she’s living under my roof, I don’t want her to think for a second that I expect her affection in lieu of rent, something I’ve refused to accept altogether. We’re still in negotiations over utilities, and by negotiations, I mean, she’s still grumbling about me refusing to take her money.
Instead of helping her clean up the clutter, I grasp her hand.
“Leave it,” I say. “We’ll get the rest later. It’s time for a break.”
She lets me pull her to her feet and then follows me downstairs. We’re already outside when she finally asks, “Where are we going?”
“I forgot to check the mail.”
My blue mailbox with the red flag sits at the end of the long driveway, across the road from my property. Normally I check it on my way home from work, but today I drove straight to the house.
It’s a nice three-minute walk to the box, past the pond and the old orchard. By now, the sun’s already dropped below the tree line to the west but there’s still plenty of light left to see by. There isn’t much mail waiting for us, and what’s there isn’t pertinent, but that was never the point.
On the way back, Kenzie points to the orchard.
“Are those peach trees?” she asks.
“I’m not sure.”
She veers off the driveway, stepping into the tall grass. I move to follow.
It’s cooled down since the afternoon, but there are still lots of determined bees buzzing among the branches. Dark bark peeks out from between the delicate pink flowers.
“That’s weird,” I say. “It doesn’t have any leaves.”
“Peach trees get their flowers before the leaves,” she yells.
I catch up with Kenzie beside a gangly, top-heavy tree that looks like it’s about to fall over.
“A little early for peaches, isn’t it?”
“This one’s a pear tree. And I’m not looking for fruit.” She ducks, gazing up into the canopy. “You could definitely afford to cut off at least a third of the branches on this one. It’ll help it bear more fruit next year.”
“Your grandpa teach you that?” I ask.
She nods. This five-foot-nothing girl stands on her tiptoes to grasp a dead branch off a nearby tree. I can’t help noticing how exceptionally juicy her ass looks in her denim cutoffs. As it happens, I already know she tastes better than a sun-ripened peach.
Focus, Pope...
“How’d you end up living with him?” I grab hold of a branch, bringing it a few inches lower so she can pull more dead twigs off it. “You don’t have to talk about it if—”
“It’s okay,” she says. “My mom had what you might call an addictive personality. She could turn anything into a habit. Men, sex, shopping, dieting. You name it, she’d find a way to obsess over it.”
I scan her face for any markers of grief and come up empty.
“You said she had an addictive personality. Is she still around?”
Kenzie shrugs. “Who knows.”
She breaks a branch over her thigh, leaving a bright red streak across her skin. Her nonchalance comes off as genuine. Still, I suspect it’s one of those situations where you can either cry, laugh, or break shit, and she’s chosen door number three.