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)
“But what if I don’t know what the next thing is?” I whisper.
“Then I help you. Kristen, you got people if you let them in.” He pushes his chair back, stands, and strides over to a drawer by the counter. He pulls it open, digs around, and comes back with a small cardboard box. He tosses it onto the table. “Start with that.”
I stare at the box stupidly. “What is it?”
“A phone. New.” He rips it open, pulls out the pieces, sets the SIM card in, powers it up. His hands are steady, sure, like even electronics don’t dare fight him. He taps away for a minute, then slides it across the table. “There. My number’s in there. Cell and my work numbers. You got that, you’re not stranded. If I’m unavailable on my cell, you call the work number. You’ll get my brother’s wife. She’s his secretary. Jennissey will either get up with me or she’ll get someone to handle shit for me. The number that says shop is my other job at the Hellions garage. You call that, you get Pami, she’s Kick and Busted’s mom. She’ll get you sorted for me too.”
My fingers curl around it. It feels heavy with possibility.
“I…” I can’t find words. “I don’t know what to say.”
He shrugs, already moving toward his wallet. “Next thing.” He pulls out a thick stack of bills, peels off a thousand like it’s nothing, and tosses it on the counter. “Go buy some clothes. Keys to the SUV are on the hook by the back door. Use that. Spend the day gettin’ what you need.”
My mouth drops open. “I can’t—Kellum, I can’t take your money—”
“You can and you will. I didn’t ask if you wanted it, I gave it to you. Darlin’ don’t ever turn away a gift in life, no matter what it is.” His eyes cut to mine, sharp enough to pin me in place. “Don’t get it twisted. I ain’t your man. I’m not buyin’ your time. You’re a human who needs shit. I’m giving you a head start. Take it.”
I swallow hard, chest tight. He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like survival is just a checklist.
“And tonight,” he adds, voice softer, “we’ll talk about what you want from life. I got shit to do. I’ll grab something for dinner and we’ll talk when I get home. Try to be back around five. If you’re gonna be late, that’s fine shoot me a text and I’ll stay at work or find shit to do ‘til you got time for me.”
The tears I’ve been holding back slip free, hot against my cheeks. I look at him, this man who should terrify me but doesn’t. He looks steady. Grounded. Like if I reach for him, he won’t let me fall. He anchors me when the waves are crashing in every direction.
I nod slowly. “Okay.
Swallowing back all the emotions, I get myself together. I don’t cry anymore. I push it back because crying seems like a luxury and I’ve spent enough energy on the wrong things.
“Go on, get dressed if you can’t eat,” Kellum states like he didn’t open the door to some unknown kingdom and turned me loose. “Keys are on the hook by the back door. Black fob with a red plastic wrap around it.”
I look toward the back door and spot the small wall-mounted board with three hooks. A house key. Two bike keys with angry little skull fobs. One black plastic car fob wrapped in red.
The stack of bills on the table stares at me like a dare. I can’t make my hand move toward it.
Kellum sighs, pushes his chair back, and flicks the wad with his finger so it slides closer across the laminate top. “Take it, Kristen. You can feel weird later. Right now we’re doing the next thing.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I blurt, because some pride is still rattling around in the corners of me. “I’m gonna get a job and I’ll pay you back for everything.”
“Okay. Or not. You do you. Whatever you need to do. It makes you feel better than sure, you need it for something later, then don’t sweat it. I’m not.” He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften it. Just, okay. The agreement lands like a plank over a gap.
I pick up my purse and tuck the money into the small inner pocket of my bag that used to hold a black card. The zipper feels louder than it should. I pick up the phone again and thumb the screen. His number stares up at me, labeled Kellum — Cell, Kellum — Office. Kellum — Shop No hearts. No silly emoji. Just clear, concise, and direct.
“Shit gets hard, reach out. Text me if you land somewhere,” he begins, halfway to the sink with our plates. “If your hands are shaking and you can’t type, send me a period. I’ll call.”