Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
A sudden calmness washes over me for the first time in my life. Sam puts me at ease, making it easy for me to fall for her.
Chapter 22
Tucker
Sam looks terrified as I park my car in front of her father’s house. She stares out the window, biting the inside of her cheek. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the grocery store. I’ve heard plenty of stories about Jim Marchand—he sounds like the worst person on the planet. What kind of man would make his kid struggle the way he has Sam? I already hate him, and I haven’t even met him.
“It’s not too late to change your mind.” Sam squirms in her seat, shooting me a worried look. “I hate coming here. You don’t have to do this with me.”
I reach across the armrest to clutch her hand, holding it against her thigh. “I’m here for you, Sam. I won’t let him hurt you.”
“He’s not violent.” She squeezes my hand tighter and sighs. “He’s just an asshole who doesn’t care enough to get his shit together. You can wait in the car, and I’ll run the food inside.”
“Hey,” I say, brushing my fingers along her jaw and staring into her eyes. “I’m here. Let me do this with you. We will get through it together.”
She closes her eyes for a second and lets out a deep breath. “I’m so embarrassed of Jim. You come from money. You have famous parents, aunts, and uncles, and I come from this,” she says, pointing at the rowhouse. “From a drunk degenerate gambler.”
“Did I ever tell you about Preston’s family?”
She scrunches her nose, thinking it over, and then shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. His dad is a hockey player, and his mom is a sports agent.”
“Preston’s dad was an alcoholic before he met his mom.”
“But he was a pro hockey player.” She seems confused. “How could he drink and still play?”
“He was a functioning alcoholic. After his dad died, he started drinking all the time. Preston’s mom made him stop drinking and helped him get his career back on track.”
Sam relaxes in her chair, looking less stressed than before.
“Jamie’s grandparents were alcoholics. That’s how his dad ended up in foster care. They even named his dad after a bottle of whiskey.”
“Jameson,” she says, nodding. “Oh, that’s… interesting.”
“You get what I’m saying, Sam? Most successful people don’t come from money. You see your upbringing as a barrier, but I think that’s why you will make it. You never give up. I’ve never met a woman like you. No matter how hard you have to work, you keep going. And that’s what makes you unstoppable. It’s the reason I like you so much.”
I love her so much.
She smiles, brushing her fingers along my hand.
“I wish I had known the real Tucker three years ago. I would have made different choices if I did. It’s hard to grow up like I did and not see someone like you, thinking you have it all and that your life is perfect.”
I snort. “Far from it. I have money and material things, but I was empty before I met you. I had hockey and my family and friends but was missing something.”
She points a finger at her chest. “And that something was me?”
“Yeah, I think so. I stopped drinking all the time after I met you. I started studying after that, too. You make me want to be a better man, Sam.”
She flashes a closed-mouth smile. “I wish I had the same effect on my dad.”
“You can’t change everyone. But you changed me.”
“If I help one person, I did my job as a teacher.”
“You’re an example worth following,” I say with a wink.
A few minutes later, we enter the house carrying bags of groceries. The entryway stinks of cigarettes and the paint on the walls is stained from age and smoke. As we step into the living room, I stare in horror at the man on the couch across from us. Jim snores with a lit cigarette still in his hand. The ashes fall to the floor as the beer in his other hand spills onto the frayed carpet.
Sam wasn’t lying about her dad or the condition of her childhood home. But this place isn’t a home. It’s a fucking nightmare. Seeing how this man lives puts my life into perspective. Now, I see why Sam considers me a spoiled brat. I am by most people’s standards, but compared to Sam, my family might as well be the Rockefellers.
“Wake up, Jim!”
Sam drops the bags on the beat-up wooden coffee table and rips the cigarette from his hand, leaving it in the overflowing ashtray to burn out.
Jim rolls onto his side, dumping the rest of the beer on the carpet, now snoring loud enough to hear him from across the room.