Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I walked over to the porch and tested the first warped step with my sneaker, and it disintegrated into crumbles under the tiniest bit of pressure.
“My dad needs my help. He just WON’T ask for it. You know how stubborn he is; you used to work for him. Besides, he still sees me as a kid, as an addict, he doesn’t want to put any pressure on me.” I tested two more steps which held up slightly better than the one that turned to wood dust. “I think he’s afraid of pushing me over the edge again.” I hopped down the steps and walked over to the garage. I ran my hand over the single bay garage door, leaving a streak in the dust coating it. Remembering all the things my grandfather taught me inside that garage. Painting, welding, drilling.
“Your dad loves you,” Brandon said as I joined him back on the porch. He followed my lead carefully up the steps, only placing his foot where mine had just proved we wouldn’t go crashing down into the crawl space underneath.
“I know. And I love my dad. That’s why I’m doing this. And if it wasn’t for the past due notices I found shoved into a drawer in his kitchen and the lawsuit from the mortgage company in his desk, I still wouldn’t know he was losing his house.”
“But still. This house is special to you. You look like you’re going to make out with it for fuck's sake,” Brandon said with a laugh.
“I don’t know about the making out part,” I said, returning his smile. “But it is special to me. It always will be,” I admitted, “But if I’d known earlier what dad was going through I would have sold it a lot sooner. He should never have...”
“Stop, Dre. You needed rehab. You needed to get your ass in school. Your dad did the right thing by you. He didn’t tell you because he doesn't want you to worry. I thought you were done blaming yourself? Isn’t that another one of your NA things?” Brandon tugged me into his side and gave me a quick kiss on the head before releasing me. Brandon and I didn’t have any secrets. He knew all my dark and dirty, and I knew all of his, although cheating on a test in sixth grade is about as dark and dirty as Brandon had ever gotten.
“Thanks, Squeaky,” I said, using my nickname for him. It stood for squeaky clean. “I’m always working on it.”
I took my time opening the front door, remembering the way Mirna always used to be on the other side of it to greet me with a smile and her famous cookies. It felt wrong that she wasn’t around. In the house, or in the world.
Mirna died six months earlier.
“Well, if you are adamant about this sale then I insist on helping you fix this place up,” Brandon said, smoothing his brown hair back with both hands. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing more sweat soaking the white tank top underneath. “What do you need me to do?”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You? Help? What do you know about fixing up a house?”
“Not a damn thing,” he admitted with a laugh, his dark gray eyes lighting up with amusement. His big smile showed off more bright white teeth than should be able to fit in one mouth. “But you know about all this stuff, and you can teach me. I’m a quick learner. Besides, what did you think I came all the way down here for?”
“Because my dad asked you to babysit me,” I answered honestly.
“No, for moral support and handyman services,” Brandon said. I tried to contain my laugh. The last thing handy I saw Brandon attempt was when he hung a picture. Within three minutes it fell off the wall.
I rehung it.
The house was going to need a lot of work to bring it up to sellable condition but time wasn’t on my side. I could use any hand offered and right then, Brandon was the only hand offering. “Alright, Brandon, let’s go then. I’m Tim the Tool-Man, and you’re Al.”
“Why do I have to be Al?” Brandon whined. “He wears plaid.”
“More facial hair,” I joked, but my smile quickly fell the second I entered the living room and a powerful sense of deja-vu I’d ever experienced slammed into me. Then the memories came back to me one by one like I was experiencing them all over again. Sitting in the living room trying to con my grandmother, running from a spray of Preppy's bullets into the woods, meditating with Mirna in the backyard, and sleeping with Preppy's body wrapped around mine in my little bed.
Chills danced up my spine.
Just as I got to the kitchen and another round of memories took shape in my mind a throat cleared from behind us. I jumped around to find Ray standing in the doorway. Her long blonde hair was stick-straight, the breeze blowing through the porch made it so she had to keep tucking the wayward strands behind her ears. She wore a simple white tank top and a pair of cut-off denim shorts. A baby, no more than six months old, bounced on Ray's hip, dressed in all pink. The little one shared the same bright blue eyes as Ray.