Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
I flip one lid and then another. And another. I peek into all of them.
Empty.
“Must’ve been good,” I mumble.
“Yeah, they were.”
I look over as Beanie steps up to the table.
“Mac doesn’t fuck around when it comes to snacks,” he says. “The wrong refreshment can send people running, and he knows it. He knows his shit. Nothing but the best here. Except for the coffee. Do not drink the coffee. It’s gross. Like, shit your pants gross. Mac doesn’t supply that, so don’t say anything to him about it. It’s a sore subject. The church provides it, or something. He knows the lady… I don’t know. But back to the importance of food quality—it’s a thing. A legit problem. People don’t know how significant the snacks are. I went to this meeting on the other side of town once and I kid you not, they had stale ass pita chips and hummus all up in that motherfucker. That’s it!” He laughs at himself. “Like, what? Who the fuck are they catering to? We’re addicts. We’re disgusting human beings. We want drugs. Dirty, nasty drugs. And if we can’t have drugs, we want sugar and anything else that’s bad for our bodies. How hard is that to understand? I mean, read a fucking book on it. Shit.”
I stare at him and blink until my mind catches up to his last sentence.
“So, is this just a localized issue?” I ask. “Or are we, as a nation, screwing up hardcore when it comes to snack foods for junkies.”
Beanie smirks. “I don’t have proof yet, but I think this stretches wide. Coast to coast.”
“Damn. That’s a little sad.”
“It’s tragic. Not enough people care.”
“At least they got it right here.”
“Yep.” His smile is bold, and he watches me as he scratches his jaw. “So. Do you got somewhere you need to be right now?”
I have no idea why he’s asking me this. “Uh. No.”
“Good. I’ll buy you a donut. There’s a place right down the street.”
I watch him walk past me.
Well, what the fuck? I am pretty hungry.
I follow him outside.
“I’m Felix,” he says once I get up beside him.
“Jake.”
The sidewalk is narrow, and we bump shoulders more than once. My hand brushes his.
“Sorry,” I say, moving over to give him some space.
“It’s cool.” He eyes me curiously. “So, how long have you been clean? Days? Hours?”
“Three weeks.”
“Dude. Yes. You should be grinning your ass off right now. Why aren’t you?”
“Not much to grin about. Trust me.”
“No. Wait. Hold up a minute.” His arm shoots out as he steps forward and spins around, forcing me to stop so I don’t run straight into him. “Three weeks is amazing. Shit. Three days is amazing. You gotta know that.”
I sigh and stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I was clean for seven years. Three weeks doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“So, a year wouldn’t mean shit to you either? Or two? What about when you hit six years? Is that not going to be good enough to you either because fuck, it isn’t seven, right? No big deal. Just doing something incredible for six solid years.” He shakes his head. “You can’t think like that, Jake. Trust me. One day at a time. Hell, one hour or one minute at a time. Whatever it takes to keep going.”
“You sound like a sponsor.”
He suddenly looks pleased. “Mm.”
“Mm what?”
“Let’s go. I need sugar before we can get into all of that.”
I watch him turn and walk ahead. “All of what?”
“Move your ass and you’ll see!”
My brow furrows.
Typically, I’d say fuck it and head home. It’s only donuts. And I’m not sure I’m in the mood to play whatever game this guy is trying to play. I don’t know him, and I sure as fuck don’t owe him anything.
But I follow him anyway.
It sort of feels like I have to.
We’re sitting opposite each other in a booth at some run-down diner I never would’ve looked twice at, and Felix is gloating because he told me I was underestimating this place and a total dick for judging something based solely on looks, which made absolutely zero sense to me because it’s a diner. Not a person. But he’s gloating anyway, smiling smugly as he leans back after chucking his crumpled-up napkin at my face.
I flick it back across the table, scowling. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.” His lips pull down. He looks worried I won’t like that answer. And I start to feel bad for even asking it. “Why?”
“Just wondering. What’s up with the beanie?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hot out. Why are you wearing it?”
Now I really feel bad, because he flinches, Felix actually flinches like I’ve threatened him, and fuck, I hate that reaction so much. I feel like such an asshole, and this guy has been nothing but nice to me.