Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
His aggression over the topic is relieving.
I’m still skeptical – fuck, call me a cynic –, but at least I know he isn’t being careless like our parents were.
“Speaking of our father-”
“Nope.”
My immediate attempt to walk off is ceased once more. “His cancer has spread.”
Disinterest remains.
“Fucking really, Ryder? You have nothing to say about that?
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
Noah’s shoulders sag to over-priced shoes as he shoves his hands into his designer suit pants pockets. “Our father is dying, and you don’t have shit to say about it?”
“No.”
“Come on, don’t you think you should see him?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Don’t you think you should give him one more chance to see his youngest son? To talk to you? To make things…I don’t know…right?”
“No.”
“Ryd-”
“For fucks sake, Noah, let it go.”
His mouth twitches to continue to argue.
“Look, it’s bad enough that in order to get financial help from my big brother that I had to sign a legally binding contract agreeing to weekly dinners – which I would’ve come to anyway –, monthly piss tests – which I fucking can’t stand doing –, and continue counseling in some way, shape, or form at least once a week, every week, no matter how fucking busy or goddamn tired I am.” A shoulder shrug is carelessly given. “My getting fucked over meter is already at capacity. Sorry.”
I resume my trek towards the car that he purchased for me to lease from him. “At least think about it!”
“Thought denied,” is yelled back in spite of my face never turning his direction.
There’s nothing to think about.
As far as I’m concerned, the sperm donor we reference to as our father, died right alongside the alternate path I should’ve taken in my adolescence.
I’ve already paid in spades for his pathetic regrets.
I refuse to fucking pay again.
**
The pale man behind the podium continues to ramble on about one of his lowest points as a user. To no surprise, it resembles quite a number of my sinking ones.
Almost word for fucking word.
He’s describing the first time he was willing to exchange sexual favors for a key bump.
The desperation that tore apart his morals.
The inability to fight the monster inside of you.
Giving up and in to feel good for just a fucking fraction of a moment.
I know that shit all too well.
Truth is when you need to reach a high bad enough, nothing shy of death will stop you.
I don’t miss that shit.
And I don’t have any fucking plans to go back to it.
Adjusting the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other is followed by Kara’s voice appearing over my shoulder near my ear. “You look grumpy.”
And she looks thirsty in her black bra that’s pretending to be a shirt.
“We could always ditch this shit and do something more fun.”
We do not have the same definition of fun.
She wants to go to pool halls and pretend she’s just there for the game or dive bars and pretend she’s just there for the karaoke not the Kamikazes.
I wanna have a hot shower and do laundry.
Is it fun?
No.
But “fun” – like hanging out – isn’t shit I’m ready for.
Having a routine.
A schedule.
That’s the shit I need.
Spontaneity isn’t an ally.
It’s an enemy.
Instead of responding, I simply fold my arms across my dirty polo and slink further down into the metal chair.
It’s cold.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
The intended resemblance to a life of addiction isn’t lost on me even if it is others.
“Okay, goodie two shoes,” she sighs, hot breath assaulting my ear. “We’ll do what you wanna do and stay.”
Denying the urge to smile isn’t easy; however, it’s successfully done.
“But you gotta admit that you aren’t really listening to his sob story so much as wishing you could grab a pair of scissors and cut off the potential rattail growing from his head.”
This time her comment causes my lips to noticeably twitch.
“Like did his ass miss the trailer park exit, or are those things coming back? Fucking tell me that they’re not coming back.”
Chuckles claw up the back of my throat in spite my best efforts to shove them down. Thankfully, his time is finished and the requirement to clap for his bravery in sharing his tale redirects all the inappropriate laughs.
Chick’s trouble.
Cute.
Clever.
Even compassionate when she thinks no one can trace it back to her.
She denies the shit, but I know it was her who had pizza delivered to my job for lunch the day after she found out that sometimes things get so crazy that I don’t even get to eat until I’m home for the night, let alone text.
She was the only one I confessed that shit to.
So, who the fuck else could it be?
My fairy fucking godmother?
Fuck off.
The recovering individual leaves the area allowing Jan to take his place for closing.
Our dismissal for the post meeting refreshments acts as Kara’s segue to climbing over the empty chair beside me and flopping her thin frame into it. “So, Grumpy Old Man, what’s the reason you won’t be having pancakes with me tonight? Shuffleboard tournament? Murder She Wrote marathon calling your name? Need to get your dentures soaking before your nurse’s early shift in the morning?”