Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
In a place like this, nostalgia for yesteryears almost always reigned.
He’d been using the flipped down tailgate of Nader’s truck as a seat, and since he couldn’t make out who the shadow was currently standing in the rear exit doorway of The Rose, Malachi remained still. The person, not entirely distinguishable to him in the much brighter halo of light, didn’t notice him or the truck, but he could hear their gulps of fresh air. Night fell and the darkness provided him a haven parked in the back, along with some clarity from a mentally terrible week.
He hadn’t shown up to his sister’s engagement dinner to cause a problem—at least, that’s what Malachi told himself. Despite the folded invitation showing up under his friend’s front door with no indication about who sent it, well, Malachi opted to be careful.
He showed.
Just not his face.
Not inside.
Except his plan wasn’t all that great because if no one knew he was there, what good did his presence really do?
Malachi hadn’t fucked up.
He was, though. Fucked up. Being back in this place did that to him, unfortunately. It’d taken him too long to figure it out.
He hadn’t been able to ignore the urge to be close to his family when he knew where they would all be. At the same time, too. Did his mother still wear the same medication-induced smile? Despite seeing pictures of Alora grown and a young woman, she was still the annoying kid sister he had to leave behind in his head; back when she still called him Mally and collected Barbies.
God, he still hated that nickname.
Never mind the fact that Malachi could barely wrap his mind around the other siblings. Four girls with names he knew only because of third parties, but he couldn’t honestly put on the correct faces. Did Frankie still like to loom higher than people when he yelled or preached?
Almost compulsion-like the knowledge of them being so easily exposed to him, so he could maybe fill in some of the blanks that had been created in the most recent handful of his twenty-seven years left him coming up with justifications and fantasies about why someone would leave him that invitation.
Fifteen minutes before the arrival time on the invite, he had parked in the back and settled in with his windows rolled down. He’d heard the arrival of family and friends. Swore he’d even recognized a few of the louder voices that managed to echo over the building into the back where he sat stewing in the truck.
Malachi owed Nader a lot. No questions asked, the dude really showed up and showed out for Malachi when it counted. From giving him a place to sleep to an ear to listen when he questioned his purpose for being in this shitty little town.
It felt better when Malachi admitted there was a part of him that had never wanted to come back here. Where he’d been hurt and abandoned by people who should have loved him. Less so when a smaller piece of him found comfort and familiarity rolling down the streets. Thinking about the what ifs and still clutching to hope for things yet to be.
That shit hurt, too.
Just in a different way.
The rear of the restaurant was nothing more than generator systems in case of power failures for the large fridges and freezers, and a row of dumpsters for trash and recyclables sitting on the same smooth asphalt that paved the drive and front parking lot. The one light dimly illuminating the rear exit overhead the row of dumpsters wasn’t enough to expose where Malachi had parked his friend’s Chevy once darkness cloaked the sky and cloud cover hid the moon and stars.
Hoping it would only be an employee at first, he realized his mistake when the shift of material made him do a double take. He’d never known the employees of The Rose to wear dresses.
He cursed himself internally when the figure stepped beyond the exit door, and used an empty milk crate not far away to keep it propped open.
She wasn’t leaving.
With her back turned to him and the alley dim again, he couldn’t make out who the woman was while she rifled through her purse. It was only when she leaned against the restaurant and flicked the lighter in front of her face for the cigarette hanging between her lips did Malachi relax. The flame illuminated her features before it was gone with her first inhale of a brown-filtered cigarette. Black, wavy hair. Almost sprite-like in size.
Delaney Reed.
He wouldn’t have taken her to be a smoker.
Not wanting to scare the woman who worked and lived with Gracen—not purposely, anyway—Malachi figured it was safe to let her know he was there.
Literally.
In the shadows, sitting on a tailgate practically right in front of her. If she cared to look harder into the darkness.