Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Physical therapy and meds have helped over the years; however, it’s still there. It’ll always be there. Just that tiny haunting reminder of lives lost. Destroyed. My biggest failure. Dr. McMahan has tried to have me reprogram the train of thought so that the limp reminds me that I am a survivor, that I was given the gift of more time, to use it wisely, but that shit doesn’t always work. Just like reaching out to people who said they never wanted to speak to me again – Hiltz’s widow – doesn’t always work either. Time doesn’t forgive all wounds. Some people…don’t ever stop blaming you for shit nor give you a second chance.
Strolling to the area is done about as quick as expected in the crowd of late brunchers and early lunchers. My slight limping along the way doesn’t seem to catch the eyes it once did, which is something I’m really fucking grateful for.
Used to overhear some of the guys on the dock talking about how I wouldn’t be able to hold my own. You can bet your ass I got some next level pride out of proving them wrong.
Surveying the scene near Crack That reveals to me the same shit it always does.
People shopping at the high-end stores.
Couples kissing near the decorative fountains.
Promoters trying to get people to take one of their flyers.
The one sight I’m expecting to see is strangely enough the only one that I don’t. Meandering towards the area where I’ve been told the man hangs out eventually has me coming up completely empty handed almost as though he’s never set foot in the space. I visually search for typical signs someone in his situation was recently nearby – cigarette butts, food wrappers, torn off pieces of fabric – yet still come up empty handed. Eventually, my gaze wanders down the nearby alleyway, not seeing an individual but a clue to where he just might be.
Upon my arrival on the other side of the dumpster, I find a shivering male, bundled up to the best of his ability, cradling his battered guitar case, using the large object to block as much wind as possible from assaulting him in his thin jacket.
I remember doing the exact same shit especially before I got a good coat. Remind me to give him mine before all this is over.
“You Jedd Cunningham?”
He doesn’t bother lifting his head off the brick wall its resting against. “Who’s asking?”
“Archer Cox.”
The answer receives no response.
“My girls color you pictures for the inside of your case.” My chin kicks to the outside of the object. “And something tells me they brought you those book stickers as well.”
His eyes cut to the array of Pigeon stickers from the kid book series that everyone in our house adores.
Oh! Put Pigeon socks on the list of gifts. They’ll love those.
Jedd slightly rearranges himself to make eye contact with me. “You’re Big Green Eyes and Little Green Eyes’ dad.”
“They can’t stop talking about you, and you don’t even know their fucking names?” I thoughtlessly snap.
“Rainne – with two ns – and Henzley – with a z because her dad’s best friend had a z in his, so she has a z in hers.”
An odd sense of relief rips through my system.
Yeah, Henz is a lot like Jaye in that aspect. She will ramble and ramble and ramble if she likes you or wants to get to know you better. It’s pains me when we have to pull her away from the cashier who she wants to tell her whole limited life story to.
“I absolutely know their fucking names, man,” he bites back at the same time he drags his slender frame upward from its slumped position. “I just don’t like people looking at me like I’m a fucking creep for knowing that shit or like something’s wrong with them for being willing to talk to me. For being…you know,” his shoulders bounce, “so fucking nice to me.” Jedd allows himself a small smile. “They’re really sweet kids.”
They are.
Most of the time.
Don’t take them to Disney. That shit brought out the ugliest side of my angels that you could possibly fucking imagine.
“The Mom – er – your wife is really nice, too. She slips cash inside the coloring sheets. Sometimes gift cards.” His expression falls a bit. “I uh…I don’t have the heart to tell her that I can’t always use ‘em. That most places around here won’t even let me in to fucking use ‘em.” The headshake I’m presented is slow. Annoyed. “They aren’t afraid to use that whole right to refuse service shit when it comes to someone like me.” Jedd grunts his increased irritation. “Just having me near most places is bad for fucking business supposedly.”
Fuck, it’s like looking at the ghost of Christmas past.
Shoving my hands into my coat pocket is done in tandem with me asking, “You like soup?”