Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
The truth is, I don’t want to.
Four
Jami
Two Weeks Later
The alarm goes off at five-thirty, but the truth is, I’m already awake.
I always am. Sleep is this ghost that dances around me but never close enough for me to feel it’s embrace.
I used to think mornings would get easier the further I got away from my old life—the hangovers, the crashes, the haze. But even now, three years clean, my body still wakes up like it’s waiting for something bad. Like there’s a ghost alarm that buzzes in my veins no matter what. The craving is always present simply lying in wait just under my skin.
It doesn’t matter. I roll with it. Recovery is a lifelong battle in my mind.
Besides, it’s not all bad. I wake up to the smell of coffee every day. That’s Tommy. He’s been up since five, maybe earlier. He’s one of those people who can go from dead asleep to working boots in sixty seconds. He claims it’s from growing up Oleander, basically in a house where being late meant less breakfast. Having three older brothers, it was every man for himself at the table. Really, I think it’s because he just can’t stand still. If he isn’t working, he’s fixing something. If he isn’t fixing something, he’s cooking.
That’s the man I share a bed with. The man who’s been my anchor and my pain in the ass since starting over in Haywood’s Landing.
I stretch, rub the sleep from my eyes, and shuffle into the kitchen. The sight in front of me is better than any high I’ve ever experienced.
He’s there, spatula in hand, strawberry blonde hair sticking up wildly like a rooster, barefoot on the tile, in some low slung shorts. He looks up and grins, and I swear he’s been smiling at me that same way since the day he carried me into this house after I finished healing in the duplex from my gunshot wound. Every morning he’s home, it begins with this look. The one that says I’m the best thing he has ever seen, even when I’ve got pillow creases on my face and breath that could knock a man flat on his ass.
“Morning, Tiny,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead. He smells like coffee and toothpaste.
“Morning,” I mumble, taking the mug he slides across the counter toward me.
The kitchen smells like bacon, and I see the pan of eggs with toast sitting in the toaster waiting to be plopped down. My stomach growls.
“You don’t have to cook every day,” I tell him, even though I’ve said it a hundred times before.
“Yeah, I do,” he shoots back, same as always.
And that’s that.
He sets a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, and toast cut just the way I like it. Diagonal. Always diagonal. He’s convinced it tastes better that way, and maybe he’s right.
By seven we’re on the site.
Tommy’s running three crews right now, which means the phone doesn’t stop buzzing in his pocket, and he doesn’t stop cursing under his breath. He’s good at it, though. People listen when Tommy Boy talks. He’s got that mix of authority and charm, like he’ll chew you out for leaving tools in the wrong spot but also buy you a beer after the shift.
Me? I work.
Cleaning construction sites isn’t glamorous. Never has been. But I love it. Dust in your nose, paint flecks on your arms, nails scattered in the dirt—it’s real work. At the end of the day, I can point at a room that was chaos in the morning and say, I did that. Like my life, I cleaned it up. There is a level of pride inside me that this job feeds.
It’s therapy, in a way. I spent years wrecking myself, tearing everything down. Now I spend my days sweeping, scrubbing, clearing out the junk so something new can stand. It’s not lost on me how poetic it is. We have to face the trash, clean up the mess, and then everyone can see the treasure underneath.
The guys on the crew know me now. At first, they just saw “the boss’s ol’ lady” and tried to baby me or avoid me. That lasted maybe two days. Then I out-swept half of them and hauled trash till my arms ached, and now they leave me be. I like it that way. I’m not here to be anyone’s princess. I’m here to work.
Sometimes I hear whispers though—wives or girlfriends of the crew talking, or people in town. Why’s Tommy’s girl cleaning sites? Doesn’t he give her enough? They don’t get it. This isn’t about money. This is about proving to myself I’m worth the oxygen I take up. I need to consume my time. Tommy understands this.
At lunch, Tommy wanders over. He always does, no matter how many crews are screaming his name. He sits on an overturned bucket beside me and hands me a sandwich he packed. Ham and cheese, diagonal cut.