Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
The tiniest thing did give me a pinch of satisfaction. The remote to the TV was still on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, and it was where I wanted it. Shawn would always move the remote to the coffee table, but this was the spot where I had breakfast in the morning and watched the news.
Everything work-related ended up on the kitchen bar too, before I turned on the TV to get some sound in here.
I kinda missed having my brother around. Nicky had lived in my guest room until he’d met Gideon.
Nicky had cooked too…
All right, three exciting things happening tonight. Shower, eat, work. In that order. Wait—what time was it? I checked my watch and felt another pinch of something that wasn’t awful. Camden Adair released a video today. Every Tuesday at eight o’clock, so it should be live already.
I decided to shower first, though. It’d been a long day, and I’d worked out during the “free period” I had before my last class for advanced drummers. A class that Nicky would take over for me soon.
After taking out a Tupperware container from the freezer, I went upstairs and, as fucking always, almost hit my head on the wooden beam crossing the ceiling near the landing. People thought it was charming as hell to have a one-and-a-half-story condo, complete with exposed brick walls, open-plan design, and rustic flooring. And I loved my home. But this shit… The ceiling up here was too low for anyone who was taller than six feet. It was also hotter than hell in the summer when all the heat from the building crawled up into my bedroom.
My new bed was made. I’d splurged after my breakup and bought a new one, and I made it every morning. Shawn had always “forgotten” and called me a neat freak for giving a crap.
Stop thinking about him, you whiny fuck.
I winced and pulled my hoodie and tee over my head.
Hot shower. Maybe it would help.
I hummed to myself and tightened the drawstrings of my sweats on the way downstairs after my shower, and as I spotted my phone on the counter, the screen flashed with a message.
The food went into the microwave, and I grabbed a beer before I sat down on a stool and opened my phone.
Nicky was letting me know that Gideon, for once, liked a place. I should hope so since they’d returned for a second viewing.
There was a message from Pop too. He was once more asking when we were heading to Nashville. Nicky and I had never traveled much, so us leaving the city was a big deal to our father. I did my best to be patient, and I responded to him.
I’m leaving next Thursday, a week before Nicky and the others.
I’d received my ticket to the food festival I was looking forward to attending, and more importantly, the confirmation that I was one of the six participants in a cooking class. I knew where to be and when. The festival started next Friday, and the cooking class was on Saturday. It was a promotional event for a famous chef I followed on Insta. I’d started out thinking maybe I could learn how to cook something worth eating. In the end, I ate my leftovers and just watched him cook. His hands and the way he used them were nothing short of pornographic.
August King. Even his name exuded power and assertiveness, and it was how he cooked. Combined with a warmth that felt entirely Southern. Unfortunately, he only released videos once a month.
It was through him that I’d found Camden Adair, King’s husband.
Unlike King, who was a renowned chef and had four restaurants across the country, Camden was an amateur. He’d given me some hope that you didn’t need a fancy education from a culinary school in order to make a nice dinner. But then I’d watched more of his videos, and safe to say, I’d never be that creative or skilled in the kitchen.
In short, my midlife crisis, which had prompted me to reinvent myself and learn new things, was going swell.
Similar results in my attempt to learn leather crafting. I was already a decent woodworker, so I’d thought working with leather would be simple. And maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. I’d just ended up watching the guys work with their hands. I’d picked up jack-shit in actual knowledge.
I had a thing about hands.
While I tucked into Nonna’s turkey casserole, I went on to my Instagram app and scrolled through my notifications first. I had students who enjoyed tagging me in their practice videos, and I had to admit it was the highlight of my day. My kids were all special to me.
Today, eleven-year-old Tatiana had tagged me in a video where she rehearsed with her clarinet for an upcoming recital. She had tagged Micaela too, her instructor and one of my friends. I played a dozen or so instruments, but the clarinet wasn’t one of them.