Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“What in the heck?” I fumble with the lock, placing the key in the deadbolt, hearing it unclick, and I do the same with the doorknob. When it doesn’t open with a slight push, I try again, but it still doesn’t budge. The only option left is to power through it and use my shoulder to finally get the door open. It’s not even like it’s wood. There doesn’t seem to be any swelling, and now I’m wondering if there’s something on the other side that could be keeping it closed on me.
I push at the damn thing one more time, and it finally gives. I’m so busy worrying about getting inside the house that I don’t hear anything at first.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Yoohoo! I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” I look over my shoulder. A woman around what would be my mom’s age appears, shoulder-length honey-golden hair cut into a bob style and eyes the exact same color of his. Glacier blue, so vividly clear you could get lost in them and never leave.
“Mrs. Steele?” I question. She’s in a white linen button-down shirt, a pair of blue capri pants, and leather woven-style flats. She looks exactly the same, minus a few wrinkles here and there. I remember everything so vividly it’s like a kaleidoscope of memories hitting me all at once. Her and my mom talking in the yard for hours on end while waiting for the bus to drop me off during my middle school years. They did the same on the rare occasion Jagger didn’t have some kind of practice after school. He’d give me a ride home, and we’d find the two of them chatting it up with no end in sight. It gave us time to sneak away into the Steele’s house, where Jagger kissed me senseless. Which inevitably led to a lot more when we weren’t anywhere near our houses or parents.
“Oh, my goodness, as I live and breathe, you are the spitting image of your mother, Lyric.” The inside of the house is empty, and I move closer to a woman who has me ready to cry in her arms. I’ve yet to really let my emotions run free. The few tears I’ve spared here and there are nothing like the cathartic release I know will come once I finally allow myself to sit and think. It’s also why Naomi shoved a pink spiral notebook into my hand and told me to journal; I guess she’s noticed I haven’t been doing that lately like I normally do. When I opened it last night in the hotel room, it even had writing prompts. Some were way too much when you needed sleep, so I slammed the notebook closed and put it back in my bag.
“Yeah,” I say with a lump lodged in the back of my throat. Her arms lift up, and then I’m giving her a hug, but really, she’s the one giving me the embrace. I had no idea what I’d find when I landed back in Whispering Oaks because, you know, that whole refusing to snoop like I’d usually do.
“It’s so good to see you. I’m so sorry about your mom, honey.” Mrs. Steele pulls back. She sent a card in the mail shortly after we’d buried my mom. I remember seeing it and thinking I should give her a call, and then, well, the Ferris wheel kept spinning, and there was no stopping to get off the ride.
“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t call you after. I promise it was on my list of things to do, but then Dad was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. I didn’t even know they kept this house until the reading of the will when he passed away.” I get the gist of the story out of the way. There’s way more involved, and I’ll probably spill the beans, except I don’t think she needs or wants to know every dang detail. I spin around, trying to give myself a moment to clear the crying jag that’s attempting to take root, and look at the carnage of the inside of my childhood home.
“Oh, dear,” I hear Mrs. Steele say from behind me. There are holes in the drywall, there’s flooring ripped up in random areas, and when I walk through the house, I see so much more. A ceiling fan that’s only being held up by its electrical wires, and the kitchen is a disaster, filthy in a sense that it doesn’t look like anyone has ever cleaned up after themselves, missing cabinet doors, drawers pulled out. And when I walk out of the main living area, heading toward the back of the house, where there are two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and what my parents used as a study, the damage is much the same. Damn it, the house is inhabitable.