Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Mothers.
Families.
The town was busy back then.
I peer in closer, gazing at one from the ’80s, judging by the texture of the image. A man who looks like Farrow stands there with long hair.
Blond hair down to his shoulders, hanging over his hard eyes as they neither welcome nor smile at the photographer.
His hard, green eyes.
Like my mom’s. And mine.
Like Ciaran’s.
It’s my grandfather in the picture.
I glance at Farrow, reclined with eyes closed, and that stern Pierce set to his eyebrows.
I wonder if he knows.
“You want to take her a snack, Constin?” Farrow asks as Fletcher wipes down his face and applies an antiseptic.
I look over at Constin, seeing him stand at the window, staring across the street.
He’s had his eyes on her all day.
“She’s got to be hungry,” Calvin chimes in. “We didn’t leave her any food.”
They didn’t?
And then I didn’t let her eat lunch.
Shit.
Farrow’s seat pops back up, and he rises, rubbing the aftershave into his skin.
“Come on, son,” Fletcher slaps the back of the red leather chair twice.
I walk over, taking a seat, and he immediately tilts me back, removing a hot towel from the warmer.
He fans it out, leaning over to put it on my face.
I jerk away. “I don’t need all that.”
“Yes, you do,” he states clearly. He wraps the towel around my face, and I’m forced to close my eyes, the heat coursing straight down my arms, and it’s fucking heavenly.
“Your generation—and your parents’ generation—for that matter,” he points out, “need to relearn that living is an art. To do things with care and pride, instead of speed, just for the sake of convenience. You understand?”
“I’m sure the old dudes in your time had their complaints about your generation, too,” T.C. retorts.
“Yeah,” Fletcher fires back. “They hated us, because we fought against segregation and Vietnam, you little shit.”
I hear quiet laughter from my left, but I don’t know whose.
Fletcher presses down on the towel, forcing the heat in to open up my pores or whatever the hell it does. I can’t argue that it doesn’t feel good, though. My nerves start to settle for the first time since they put her in that house yesterday.
“Doing one little thing with regard makes you feel better,” Fletcher explains. “And if you feel better, your day will go better. How you do anything, is how you do everything.”
“Amen,” Farrow says.
Pulling off the towel, Fletcher dispenses some hot lather from his machine and works it between his hands.
He closes in with it, and I shut my eyes as he covers my jaw, cheeks, and neck with the warmth.
My head starts to float high, and I expel all the breath I was holding since she arrived. That actually feels really nice.
“Your whole world can go to shit,” he goes on, “and everything could be falling on your head all at once, but you can still make your bed and get a gentleman’s shave.”
“Hell yeah,” Calvin calls out, and I hear a round of two beats as they all knock on something to show their agreement.
I know why my grandpa always liked it here. It was the people. Ciaran was old school long before he was old, and the citizens of Weston didn’t like change. They didn’t get vacations to the Caribbean, so if life’s pleasures were smaller, then why not do them right? They do things like go for walks, play cards, and a big night for kids is going for a ninety-nine cent ice cream cone at the Village Drug Store.
I’d heard what Dylan had said in first period, and she was right. There was nothing else for them.
And that had made them a unit.
That’s why I came to Weston. We’re going to win.
I hear a small lid close, and then I feel Fletcher place his hand on my cheekbone, pulling the skin taut before he slides the sterilized razor up my face.
“What time was she in bed last night?” Farrow asks.
Constin replies, “Lights were definitely out by eleven.”
Yeah, they were. I close my hands around the ends of the armrests. Constin was watching, too.
“We should’ve put cameras in there,” he says.
“We had no time,” Farrow retorts. “I didn’t think we were getting a girl, and definitely not her.”
“Someone could do it tonight,” Constin points out. “We’ll take her to eat, come back, get the bikes. We can keep her out of the house for hours.”
“I’m not hearing this,” Mr. Fletcher says as he moves across my jaw.
“I’ll stay with her,” Constin goes on. “I want to drive her to Breaker’s too. I want her to get used to being alone with me.”
I flex my jaw, Fletcher’s razor slips, and I feel the slice in my skin.
I grunt, breathing hard, and Fletcher pats the wound with a towel. “Boy, keep still.”
“You okay, Hunter?” Farrow calls out.
But his voice is amused. I lift my middle finger.