Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“What?” he says.
“You don’t love me but you felt bad enough about it that you got me a gift to try and smooth it over,” I simplify.
“When the hell did you ever say you love me?” He says and gets to his feet. He’s pulled on the front of his hair so it’s sticking up and looks less perfect. I’m meanly glad about that.
“At your place. When I said you feel like home to me, and I’ll be chasing after anything that reminds me of this until I die.”
The other night he was silent for so long, I thought he’d turned to stone. Now he’s the opposite. He looks sort of frantic.
“For God’s sake, Mick, I told you an hour with you is better than—”
“Twenty-three with someone else. I know. How was I supposed to know that means you love me?”
“How could you not know it means that?” I burst out. “How can you be so smart in business and so fucking stupid in life? I’ve ruined myself over you, and I signed up for it, I know. This is my fault. I’m the idiot who said I’d take one hour, that I wanted you however you much you can give me and it’s not a hell of a lot.”
“But I told you—” he starts.
“I know what you told me!” I interrupt. “And I know how stupid I am for wanting anything more than the pitifully little you’re willing or able to give. But I’m done now.”
I stand up and hold out the necklace to him. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he rounds the table and grabs me by the arms. “Do you think I’m going to let you walk away from me?” He almost growls.
“Yeah, I do. Because you’re too chicken shit to be with me for real. Why not just let me go?”
“You owe me an hour. You said so, that an hour with me was better. I want my hour.”
“Maybe you don’t deserve an hour,” I say defiantly.
“Maybe I don’t, but I still want it.”
“I can’t go on like this, Mickey. I’ve saved up what I need for the prep courses and testing to get my license. I’m your temporary money man and that’s all I can be. Until Benny Ragucci comes to take my place.”
The ragged laugh he gives has no humor in it. “You think Benny’s gonna replace you?”
“Is Wednesday night not in his job description?” I ask bitterly.
“There’s nobody on the goddamn Earth that could take your place and if you don’t know it by now then you’re not as smart as you think you are. If this is it, just get out.”
He shakes his head in disgust, turning his back on me. I say no more, dropping the necklace onto the table with a heavy, resounding clunk.
I take my leave and make it all the way home before I start crying as I unlock the door. Of course it’s the one time Rory is at home. He’s got a game on TV and he’s scrolling on his phone.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” He asks.
“I’m fine,” I mutter and go to my room. He doesn’t get up and ask if I’m okay or if I want to talk. There’s no reason why he should. He’s never been the model big brother to me anyway. I pop in my earbuds and listen to an audiobook to take my mind off of things, but it doesn’t completely halt the tears running down my face.
17
MICKEY
Iused to love my house. Even before the decorator got done fixing it up. The location’s good, the brewery down the street has great takeout, and most importantly I like the view. I loved the roof deck until Katie fucking ruined it. The house, the deck, the steam shower. All ruined.
Katie fucking left me. Walked out and didn’t look back. She still comes to work, does her job, and sits in our scheduled meetings with the most closed-off and all-business demeanor I’ve ever seen. Her face is shuttered and her eyes don’t have the expressions I know, nothing to give me a clue about what she’s thinking.
It’s quite possible she hates me. I refuse to broach any personal topic with her now. She made herself clear. I don’t have anything new to say on the subject, and going over the same tired reasons would only hurt more. I don’t text or call. I keep it as professional as she does and I fucking hate it.
It's a desolate wasteland here, like Siberia or something. My nice house feels like it’s haunted now. Every day I run across something that guts me. Her hair tie in my bathroom. Her music on my Spotify. Her voice on my phone—that one’s my fault because I torture myself by listening to her voicemails from a few weeks ago.