Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I will end you,” I whispered.
Ben winked. He fucking winked. Maybe half a percent of the population could pull that off. He had to be one of them?
Chip giggled. “I don’t know! Go Cubs!”
“Close,” Ben said. “But correct answer is, Maybe next year.”
I rolled my eyes and decided to give him the cold shoulder until I’d scrubbed the memories of my old man saying, “Well, there’s always next year” a million fucking times over the years.
“Is he teasing you, Uncle Trace?” Chip asked.
“He totally is,” I was quick to reply.
That only made the boy snicker. “Mommy does that too.”
What the hell? Was this Gang Up on Uncle Trace Day?
I left the shits in the dust and stalked over to the photo tent.
“Wait!” Ben called. “I have more Cubs jokes!”
Oh, screw it. It was on now. I handed over Chip’s race number to the guy at the tent, then turned around to face Ben.
“You want jokes? Look in the damn mirror, man,” I said. “Or how about a quiz? What do the Sox have in common with a possum? Both play dead at home and get killed on the road.” I wasn’t done. His scowl only fueled me. “What do you call forty rich fuckers sitting at home watching the World Series? The White Sox.”
Chip started guffawing, though I doubted he understood the digs.
“What does a Sox fan do after his team has won the World Series?” I pressed. “He turns off his PlayStation.”
With that said, I turned my back on him once more, and I took a deep breath. It was important to stop before things got too heated.
“Here we go, pal.” The guy adjusted his laptop so I could see the images they’d taken. There were more than ten, and he explained they took extra to ensure I had ten quality pictures to choose from.
One of the first I clicked on became an instant pick. It’d been taken a second or two before Chip ran into the color explosion. His arms were raised in the air, hands balled into fists, a warrior cry frozen in time, and eyes screwed shut. Fucking perfect.
The other two, I had to go with when he emerged from the dust cloud. I scrolled through a dozen of them, and they were all good. He looked so damn happy. Sarah would probably like the one where he’d just opened his eyes and he was reaching the finish line.
“Okay, so those three there.” I pointed at the screen. “And the last one in print, thanks.”
“No problem. You’ll get all three in a zip file on your email, and your print will be ready in a few seconds.”
“Thank you.” I nodded and stepped aside for the next schmuck who’d shelled out the big bucks. But at the end of the day, fucking worth it.
“And how do you want your hot dog, champ?” I asked, helping Chip down to the ground again.
Trace’s preferences were eerily similar to mine, so that would be an easy order.
Chip stepped closer to Trace and tugged on his tee, to which Trace bent down to hear what the boy whispered in his ear.
We’d ended up at a vendor in the middle of rush hour, so I hoped the plan was to return toward Navy Pier so we could eat in peace. It was just a couple blocks away.
“Next!”
I jerked my chin and stepped up. “Hey, two dogs with everything, except pickles—and extra mustard on one.” I turned back to Trace, who was nodding.
“Yup, and next time you see Grandpa, you call him totalitarian for deciding what you put on your food, you hear?”
Chip grinned and nodded. “Okay!”
Trace smiled and met my gaze. “One with just relish and ketchup.”
Fair enough. Suddenly, I understood the whispering, and I could guess what Trace’s old man had said. I sincerely hoped he hadn’t been serious. Alvin loved his ketchup too.
I placed the last order and dug out my wallet from my back pocket.
It was still an indescribable feeling to be able to pay for my food and treat Trace and Chip. I was feeling like a human being again. One who was currently fucking starving—and losing his mind. But the latter was Trace’s fault.
Coming up here today hadn’t helped.
It didn’t matter what Trace did; everything about him reeled me in. He was talking about his worry of waking up and seeing me gone, but at this point, I wasn’t sure I physically could. Helping out at the bar made me feel like I was contributing well enough—I mean, I’d replaced the entire bartop, and now I was gonna fix the booths that needed a makeover. Trace was right. It was a win-win situation. For once in my life, I wasn’t the only one on the winning side when it came to people helping me.
Moreover, I was rediscovering traits that’d been buried for years. For one, I wasn’t one of those who naturally felt shitty about themselves. Low self-esteem wasn’t my default setting. I was feeling better now that I could afford the care Alvin needed. I could make sure Ma’s fridge was stocked, and I could pitch in with rent.