Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“It’s been a long day,” I share into the ceiling. “Sleep.” My hand keeps moving—slow, steady passes that have nothing to do with heat and everything to do with rhythm. Her breath evens. The tremble in it fades. The weight of her settles different when her body finally agrees to rest.
She’s asleep faster than I expect, and deeper. I can tell by the way her face goes slack against me, by the way her fingers unkink from the death-grip on my shirt. There’s a tiny snore that she’ll deny to her grave. It makes my mouth tilt in the dark. I keep stroking her hair long after she’s gone under because my hand doesn’t want to stop and I don’t have to explain myself to anybody in my own bed.
The room hums the familiar background music—fridge motor, a car out on the street, the sigh of the AC kicking into another cycle. For once, the quiet doesn’t crawl over me making me feel raw. It fits.
I stare at the ceiling and let the day replay itself in reverse—the tow hook clanking, her face when the phone didn’t work, the way she reached for me without believing she was doing it.
I’m not a hero.
I’m not a knight to save the princess.
I’m not even good most days.
I’m my mother’s son.
I’m a man who knows what to do when someone’s falling. You catch. You set ‘em on their feet.
Then I move the hell on. Except my arm’s full of contradiction and she smells like eucalyptus and something that’s just her, and moving on isn’t what happens. Instead I let myself enjoy holding her. Sleep finally comes to me slowly. I take it when it arrives.
Six
Pretty Boy
I wake before the sun because I always do. Years of runs and nights on couches train the body to grab rest in fistfuls and get out before the world starts yelling. The room sits gray-blue. Kristen’s still draped over me like I’m a piece of furniture she trusts. Her mouth is open a fraction. Her breath is soft and regular.
I don’t move for a while. It’s not out of care, but it is a choice. There’s a kind of quiet you don’t break because it feels like a crime to do so. My arm tingles. I let it.
When I finally shift, I do it slow, easing out from under her and tucking the pillow beneath her cheek so she doesn’t lose the warm shape. She sighs once, frowns in her sleep, then goes smooth again.
Coffee is muscle memory. Grounds. Water. Flip the switch. The machine coughs itself into usefulness. My phone blinks on the counter.
One message from Tripp: You alive or drunk?
Another from Crunch with a picture of takeout and the caption Married life: 10/10 recommend. I type back to Tripp: Alive. Working.
I leave Crunch on read because I am thankful my brother is happy and healthy. If he wants to celebrate marrying Jennissey every day until his last breath, I’ll take every message. There was a time I wasn’t sure Crunch would make it. The drugs had a grip on him in a way none of us could reach him. Now he’s sober and living a full life with the only woman he’s ever loved.
By the time the smell hits the bedroom, she stirs. I hear it from the kitchen—the soft huff, the rustle of blanket. I imagine what her brain is feeling. It’s the coming to with recognition of the moment a mind that’s been running opens an eye and doesn’t immediately start sprinting. I pour two mugs of coffee. I don’t ask how she takes it, I’m not a short order cook or a waiter. I set out sugar and milk like a civilized human so my mother’s lessons stuck in my head will leave me alone, but I’m not mixing the damn drink for her.
She appears in the doorway with my shirt hanging off one shoulder and a crease on her cheek from the seam of the pillowcase. She blinks at me like she forgot where she was and doesn’t hate remembering. Then her face does this thing—remembers everything else—and the light flickers.
“Morning,” I greet, neutral.
“Morning.” Her voice is scratchy. “Did I—did I drool on you?”
I laughed. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened in that bed.”
She snorts, surprised, a quick flash of a sound that makes my ribcage feel bigger on the inside. She crosses to the table, fingers skimming the chair back like she’s testing the world for sharp edges before she sits. She looks at the mug like it might bite. “I take…,” then she pauses thinking, “whatever you made, it will be perfect.”
“That works.” I slide the mug toward her. She wraps both hands around it for the heat. She doesn’t drink. She just holds.
“You got people who need to know where you are?” I ask curious about her situation and support system. I keep my tone like I’m asking about the weather.