Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“You took a couple of pretty good hits,” Phoenix said softly…so softly that I automatically looked up at him. This time he didn’t look angry, just…confused.
That couldn’t be right, could it?
“Yeah, I guess,” I lied. “Sorry.” I looked at the knife again, but when I felt the familiar bile crawling up my throat, I stepped away from the plate. “I should get you some coffee,” I practically yelled. I quickly turned my back on him, hoping like hell he’d cut his own damn sandwich.
I took my time getting a mug from the cabinet above the coffee machine and by the time I’d located the container of powdered creamer and the basket holding the sugar packets, Phoenix was back at the small table, his sandwich cut, but untouched in front of him. I filled the mug and took it and the other items to the table. I was barely aware of Phoenix thanking me. “Um, I need to get started on dinner.”
Phoenix nodded and waved me away. “Of course. Thank you for this,” he said as he motioned to the coffee and sandwich.
I nodded and turned away from him. I was very aware of Phoenix’s eyes on me as I started prepping everything, but I was still too embarrassed by my behavior to even consider looking his way or try drawing him into conversation. In fact, I was regretting even inviting him inside to wait for dinner service to start.
The routine of cooking started to relax me and after a while I nearly forgot about Phoenix all together until his rumbly voice had me jumping back from the pot of potatoes I was boiling so I could ultimately mash them.
“Is it okay if I wash this by hand?”
With my heart still racing, I looked over my shoulder at him and saw the empty plate in his hand. A small part of me was pleased to see he’d eaten all the food I’d made for him. I shook off the silly thought and said, “You can just leave it in the sink. I’ll wash it in a bit.”
The soup kitchen had a dishwasher, but it had broken a long time ago and it didn’t make sense to put money that could be spent on other things towards fixing it when it was just as easy, if not a little more time consuming, to wash the dishes by hand. On the days when I didn’t have to go to work after dinner service ended, I actually looked forward to the monotony of washing dishes.
“I don’t mind,” Phoenix said as he moved towards the sink. “I’m one of those people,” he added.
“Those people?” I asked.
“You know, the ones who wash the dishes before they put them in the dishwasher. Or have to have everything put in the dishwasher just so.”
I chuckled. “My mom was one of those…used to drive my dad crazy, especially after all the shit she gave him for not helping with the dishes.”
“My mom too. She and I were constantly reorganizing the dishwasher after the other was done.”
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“He and my sister wisely stayed out of the kitchen before and after dinner.” Phoenix glanced over his shoulder at me. “The kitchen was my mom’s domain…mine too, I guess.”
I smiled at that. It wasn’t exactly the manliest thing to admit to. “I used to cook with my mom all the time. Dishes were supposed to be my dad and brother’s responsibility, but my dad usually got out of it by sweet-talking my mom.”
“What about your brother?”
The warmth of the memory dissipated. “Ricky never did much of anything he didn’t want to do.”
My brother had been one of those kids who’d been born bad to the bone. Although I’d still been a baby when he’d been a small child, I’d heard stories of his behavior, mostly from fights I’d overheard between my parents as they’d blamed each other for how Ricky had turned out. My mother had been accused of coddling and spoiling Ricky too much while my father had apparently used a heavy hand to discipline Ricky, even when he’d been a toddler. The result had been an angry, narcissistic kid with a violent temper and a sadistic streak a mile long. At the tender age of ten, Ricky had stabbed my mother in the hand with his fork after she’d ordered him to finish his carrots. Not surprisingly, my mother had been afraid of him after that and had done nothing to address his increasingly volatile and violent behavior. My father had seemed to fear Ricky as well, because he’d stopped taking his temper out on Ricky and had laid it all on me. I hadn’t fared any better with my brother.
But of course, I would have welcomed the beatings if that was all Ricky had been interested in.