Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Dad stays in his office all day. His workaholic ways seem unchanged even after the stroke. I don’t know why I’m here, the specifics of what I’m supposed to be doing. Does he still go into the downtown Birchbark office? Do I need to cook? Give him pills? He seems pretty self-sufficient.
I fuck around the house, shoot a text to Rob, then to Spencer, who messages back much faster than my boyfriend.
Spencer: Hey…good to hear from you. Is everything going okay?
He might not know details, but he knows something’s going on. I appreciate having him there, even if I’m shit at opening up to him. I haven’t given all of myself to anyone except Dusty.
Fuck, there it is again.
Me: About how I expected. Listen…I’m sorry for not being better at this whole friendship thing.
Spencer: What are you talking about? You’re a good friend. When I needed help creating the perfect night with Corbin, you’re the one I went to.
Yeah, I’m good at things like that, but we both know I suck at other shit. Fuck, just look at how everything went down with Dusty.
Me: You know what I mean, but thanks.
I make tacos for dinner because I can find all the ingredients. I hear Dad in his office on the phone, so I knock, poke my head in and say the food is ready, but he waves me off.
I find myself outside, sitting on the edge of the dock, staying at the house of an aging father who is still too busy for me, while telling myself I don’t care and ignoring any other option. Maybe a part of me used to want to be loved by him, but he’s killed it over the years. Or he’s still killing it.
I don’t know how long I sit here, stomach grumbling, but I’m not going inside to eat. I try not to think about what happened here. It was so long ago, so much has changed, but thinking of Ella is still a festering wound not only in my chest, but in the family. Losing Mom was the beginning of our disintegration, and losing our little butterfly girl was the last straw.
The dock creaks with a footstep behind me. There’s a whole list of people it could be—Dad, Rhett, Easton—but somehow I know it’s not any of them. It’s stupid to feel like I can tell by the walk, by the feel of the air around me and how tight my chest gets.
“Hey,” comes Dusty’s deep, gravelly voice. I’ll bet he has his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He always used to do that when he was nervous.
“Rhett’s not here.” It’s immature, ridiculous even, that I’m holding on to this so many years later. They’re not together. I don’t know if they ever were or if it had just been a one-time thing. Every time I think about it, my heart tells me it had been going on for years behind my back, that it’s still going on. That my own brother hates me so much, he took my best friend from me. It doesn’t matter what my brain considers. It’s not nearly as strong as that one organ in my chest.
“Fuck off, Morg. That’s not fair.”
“I guess you’re right. You’ve probably been talking, so you know he’s not here.” My back is still to him, my legs hanging over the dock, bare feet in the water.
“Yeah, well, he didn’t walk away from a lifetime of friendship ten years ago without letting me get a word in edgewise, without letting me explain or apologize. If I’m talking to him instead of you, that’s your fault.”
My whole body goes tense, my muscles nearly spasming.
I shove to my feet, turn to face him, but nothing comes out at first. All my words are too damn jumbled up with the fact that I’m seeing Dusty James for the first time in ten years. His hair is a little longer, just a couple inches, and curly. He’s wearing old, threadbare jeans, a button-up shirt with paint stains that says Dusty’s Collision Repair, and work boots. He has sun freckles on his golden skin and his forehead is wrinkled in anger. He’s still about two inches taller, which is a dumb thing to think since obviously he hasn’t still been growing that direction since I last saw him at twenty-five.
He’s got thick-ish scruff along his jaw, body still broader than mine. Dusty hit a growth spurt when we were teenagers and wasn’t the gangly, scrawny kid anymore. But his blue eyes are still filled with fire…and like he’s always been, he’s fucking beautiful. That truth rubs me wrong.
“What are you doing here, Dust?”
He throws up his arms in frustration. “Hell if I know. Clearly, you’re not going to give me the benefit of the doubt. I guess I just thought that after all these years, we could have a normal conversation like a couple of adults. I see that your hate for Rhett is bigger than anything else. Goddamned Swift brothers. You’re all the same.”