Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
BJ buckles up and puts the Jeep in gear. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Just need to deal with the fallout.” I stare out the window, unable to look at him.
He’s silent for a few seconds before he asks softly, “Should I be worried, Winter?”
My knee is bouncing, and I press my palms against the top of my thighs. “My mom isn’t like me. She’s soft. And when my dad gets angry, he says nasty shit. I just don’t want him getting pissed at her when I’m the one who lied.”
“Does your dad get angry a lot?”
“He’s reactive. My mom doesn’t deserve his anger because I fed her a line of bullshit.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re not allowed to hang out with friends.”
“Well, you wouldn’t get it because your family is basically hemorrhaging money.” I cringe, hating my caustic words, frustrated that I’m defensive and that I sound a lot like my dad does when he’s being his asshole self. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s not like we’re given a choice as to what family we’re born into, and I sound like a dick. Look, to you, it’s just hanging out with friends, but to my dad, I’m shirking my responsibilities at home by not helping keep food on the table. It’s me wanting things I can’t have instead of being thankful we have a roof over our heads.”
“You have a job, though, so you are helping, and you’re taking college courses, so that’s good too, isn’t it?”
I sigh. I’m sure he’s trying to make sense of it. To understand my life. But his dad is a stand-up guy, and his mom is his coach. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live with constant emotional warfare. “He doesn’t see the value in college,” I explain. “Not when I can get a perfectly good job at the ice cream factory and bring home a paycheck we could use.”
He reaches the T-intersection and turns down my road.
“You should stop here. I don’t want to add fuel to the fire.”
He doesn’t push, just pulls over so he’s not in the middle of the gravel road. He helps get my bike down, and I sling my backpack over my shoulder.
I’m about to hop on my bike when he links our pinkies and steps into my personal space. I put a hand on his chest. “I don’t need to be saved, BJ. I can handle myself.”
“I know, but should you have to?”
I look at the sky. “I need to go. Thank you for tonight. Fingerbang Friday was totally worth the wait.” I meet his eyes, imploring him to let this go. To let me walk away and deal with things. To not get involved.
His expression is somber as he takes my face between his palms. “You don’t have to fight every battle on your own.” He brushes his lips over mine. “I’m going to text you in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be fine.” I kiss him one last time, sling my leg over my bike, and pedal up the road, leaving behind my escape from this shitstorm I call a life.
When I reach my driveway, I take a deep breath, wishing I hadn’t started today with a lie I can’t get out of. I prepare for the coming argument, for the corrosive vitriol my dad will spew.
Words leave invisible wounds, the kind that won’t heal no matter how much time passes. They fester and ooze and infect the heart. So anytime someone tries to get inside it, it infects them too.
11 ONE STEP FORWARD TWO STEPS BACK
BJ
I watch Winter ride her bike up the hill and disappear into the murky darkness. It seems a lot like I’ve sent her into battle without armor. I tap on the steering wheel, not liking the feeling in my stomach. Something about this situation seems off—like her actions and reactions don’t match the circumstances.
Instead of going home, I drive to the end of the road and park in our make-out spot.
I cut the engine and debate my options. I’m certain there’s more to this than financial struggles and a dad who’s a jerk. Winter is nineteen going on twenty, she works, she plays sports, and she stays out of trouble. Catching heat for hanging out with friends on a Friday night doesn’t add up. It’s not like we’re getting wasted and causing mischief.
Sitting here doing nothing seems the opposite of helpful. As I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes. I have messages from Lovey and the gang, probably wondering where Winter and I disappeared to, but the newest ones are from Adele.
She doesn’t usually message after nine unless it’s an emergency, but our practice today was rough. The triple twists were sloppy, and she struggled with the angle. Mostly it seemed like she was psyching herself out, and the more we practiced, the worse it got, so I suggested we end early. I also mentioned potentially switching to a double twist, which seemed to make her feel worse.