Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 162369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 812(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 812(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Hooking up with random chicks for sex is about as appealing to me as sticking my dick in the garbage disposal.
“Nobody wants to see my fucked-up face. And what about you? I don’t see you with anyone. I’m sure that swoony voice of yours has chicks strapping mattresses to their backs from here to Boston.” Kelley’s intense blue eyes, raspy voice, endless charm, and muscles must be getting him laid every night.
“Stop changing the subject. I’m trying to help you.”
“Who says I need help?”
“Getting plastered while talking to your dead wife and passing out on the floor of the barn sounds like a scream for help to me.”
“There’s no law against any of that.”
“No law against trying to be a good friend, either.”
Kelley is exhausting me with his persistence, and he’s wasting his time. Nobody can fix the mess that is me.
Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms and level a one-eyed stare at him. “Okay, Kels. What do you propose I do?”
“Stop drinking. Focus on your art. You’re throwing away your talent and your career. Start going to AA meetings and grief counseling.”
“I’ll say yes to the art and no and no.”
“Why no?”
“Because I hate people too much to sit around with them. What kind of bullshit is that? Welcome to this group of people just like me who got screwed out of happiness. Let’s all commiserate in our misery. No thanks. I’m depressed enough already.”
“It’ll be good for you.”
“No.”
“What about a private counselor?”
“Tried that. Talking to someone once or twice a month for an hour does nothing for me.”
He lets out a breath that blows his light-brown hair off his forehead. “How ’bout this then… I’ll stop by every night after work. I’ll make us some real food, we’ll hang out for a while, maybe go dumpster diving for your art shit, listen to some tunes…”
“You tryin’ to date me, Kelley?”
“I’m serious, dickhead. It’ll get you out of your head. If you feel messed up during the day, give me a buzz. Just don’t dive into the bottle.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
He flashes me his notorious stage smile. “Think of me as a mood manager.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do with your life?”
“Nothing that’s more important than helping a friend.”
I wish he’d leave me alone. I don’t need a mommy or a supervisor. I need my wife and my daughter.
As if reading my mind, he says, “You need some real human interaction, Fox. You’re buried in the past, living in an alcohol-induced hallucination. It’s not cool. Give me a month.”
“Why do you give a shit?”
He chews the inside of his cheek and shrugs. “Guess I’m just a nice guy.”
Sarcasm sits at the tip of my tongue like a bullet in the chamber. I stop myself before I spew profanities at him. Kelley’s never mentioned any friends, partners, or family. No one. He’s two years younger than me. He was twenty the night I threw a bottle at him and he drove me home. I’ve been so messed up I’ve never taken a good long look at him. The only things I know about him is he’s a landscaper and sings in a band. For all I know, he might be the one who really needs a friend and a distraction.
“Whatever, man,” I say. “If you want to cook me dinner for a month, I ain’t gonna stop ya.”
But if he starts trying to fold my laundry, I’ll kick his ass to the curb.
Chapter 6
ALEX
Kelley’s one month turned into two. Then three. I haven’t drunk a drop of liquor in that time.
But I want to.
In fact, I’m staring at a bottle of Fireball right now. It’s been sitting on a little wood shelf above my workbench long enough for it to be barely recognizable under a layer of dust. Just looking at the amber bottle brings the familiar taste of cinnamon heat to my mouth.
I’ve caught Brianna out of the corner of my eye, a shadow darting across the room, a whisper of her perfume in the air. The falling of rose petals as she rustled by. Kelley told me not to look. Not to talk to her. Not to give in. Especially today of all days.
But I want to.
So. Fucking. Bad.
I’m supposed to be cleaning and organizing my tools, which is code for keeping myself busy without weed or alcohol while Kelley is playing a gig. I declined his customary offer to tag along this time. I was afraid I’d start throwing bottles at him again.
I want to be alone, and at the same time, I don’t want to be alone at all. What am I supposed to do every year on the day my entire life was obliterated? Cry? Reminisce? Get wasted? The date is branded into my existence, along with birthdays and holidays. It can’t be forgotten or ignored. It’s disturbing. I wonder if there’s a card for this sort of thing? Sending our condolences on your yearly day of horror. Or, a little birdie told us it’s seven years today since you lost everyone you love!