Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
I hate myself for it, but now Cheryl’s words have me concerned.
What if something crazy happened to Lincoln and everyone just thinks he’s waving his dick? He never struck me as a coward.
I get up and ask the barista girl if she’s seen a suit come in lately for a large Regis roll order.
She knows exactly who I mean.
When she tells me he hasn’t been by in a few days—very unusual—my heart skips. What the hell is going on?
I take off, tossing back what’s left in my cup as I fly out the door.
At the park a few blocks down, I find Wyatt’s tent. It’s crumpled and empty, his meager belongings picked over.
Oh my God. What happened?
A rustling noise behind me makes me turn.
A girl comes out of the pink tent where we left flowers once. She gives me a friendly wave.
I return it, even with my brain stuck on panic.
Should I call Lincoln? Does he already know? Is this why he’s gone?
“Hey there. Any news about Wyatt?” the homeless girl asks.
I blink, clearing my throat. “No. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“You don’t know? I found him. He was pretty sick and out of it, so I called an ambulance. I rode to the hospital with him, but then Lincoln came and I couldn’t stay there forever. I just want to know how Wyatt’s doing.” She gestures to the collapsed, empty tent.
A rock forms in my throat.
“What hospital did they go to?” I ask.
Before she’s even done rattling off a name, I’m racing into the night.
Lincoln Burns might be the bastard child of a cactus and a rabid wolverine, but I can’t leave him hanging with those standoffish texts if his best friend is dying.
I need to find him ASAP.
20
That Melancholy Burden (Lincoln)
Knock, knock, knock!
I jerk up in my seat, almost welcoming the interruption. It’s a good reason not to write this stupid email I’ve been struggling with for days.
I go to the door, assuming it’s a nurse or doctor here for another check-up. I find Olivia and Micha instead. The boy’s face is hollow, empty, and scared.
My heart sinks. I’m glad he’s here, but I know it can’t be easy.
I reach down, tussling his hair with my hand.
“I haven’t seen you in a while, little man. You’ve gotten so big.”
He looks up slowly with a small sniffle. “Is my dad gonna be okay, Mr. Lincoln?”
“He’s been through worse, I promise you that,” I say, wishing I had the heart to lie to him with lofty guarantees about Wyatt springing out of bed tomorrow. “Why don’t you go on in and see for yourself?”
“Thank you, Burns,” Olivia clips. She’s just as fabulous as ever, wearing a smile that looks like it wants to chew my face off.
You’d never guess the man she made a son with is lying behind us on his deathbed.
I hold the door open, ushering them inside before I let it shut behind me and walk across the hall.
I want to stay as close as I can while I wait for them to leave. Wyatt shouldn’t be alone when there’s always a sliver of a chance he could wake up.
They’re in the room for less than half an hour.
Micha’s strung-out sobs are hard to miss, even in the hall. When they exit the room, Olivia’s face is redder than her son’s. She swipes a tear off her cheek.
I want to believe those tears are real.
Only, she’s so self-centered. She’s probably just pissed Wyatt found a way to force himself back into her life—back into Micha’s—even if he’s horribly close to leaving this world.
I move over as Micha tries to shrink into the wall, his arms clasped tightly around his small body.
“You going to be okay, bud?” I ask, leaning down with concern.
“Yeah,” he mumbles without looking up.
Olivia sighs.
“I just knew he’d end up like this if he kept living like a pack rat. He looks terrible.” Her words are soft and strained.
“You’re blaming a homeless guy for having pneumonia in front of his son?” I growl, standing and lowering my voice so the kid can’t hear.
“No. I’m blaming a man who refused to hold down a job after Iraq, and who used to pop painkillers like dinner mints. He’s lucky it’s just pneumonia. I don’t even want to know what his liver looks like.”
“He couldn’t work. He lost his leg—” I choke on my words, knowing I have to be calm for the boy’s sake.
“But not his brain—”
“You abandoned him,” I bite off.
“Oh, sure. It’s not like his issues were any better when he was drinking himself stupid. Somebody had to support our son, and you’re looking at her,” she says bitterly.
“Whatever. Micha doesn’t need to hear you trashing his old man like this while he’s laid up in the room behind you. It’s not fair to anyone.”
Micha’s small, hurt sobs are audible again. He looks at us with wide, glistening eyes.