Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Lucas
The muscles in my arms burn as I stare up at the ceiling of my old bedroom. That same branch outside scrapes against the window pane in the wind, and the scent of the vanilla candles my mom used to burn linger in the air.
I always remember stuff like that. The little things.
They stick in my memory more than faces or conversations.
More than any holiday.
More than my dad’s funeral. That was a blur. But I guess it would be. I was only eight.
I remember how the seatbelt smelled in his old Buick. The sounds of the heavy doors clicking shut. The argument he and Mom had over whether the light above the stove was a nightlight or not, and the crusty feel of my bath towel when I left it on the radiator to dry during a snowy December night.
I remember Madoc.
How I was so scared to meet him that first time, and how he smiled all that day, and how I didn’t realize how much I needed all of those smiles.
How he sat and talked to me after I got beat up in eighth grade, even though I have no recollection of what he said. I just remember that he was there.
How he taught me to drive when I was fifteen, and when he put his cufflinks on me before I left for prom—the ones his father gave him. He just stared at my sleeves as he worked. Wouldn’t even look me in the eye, because he was probably afraid I’d be embarrassed by the pride on his face and the love he had for me.
The pride…
If only he knew.
I unclench my hands, liquid heat spreading across my chest as I throw off the sheet and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I drop my elbows to my knees and squeeze my eyes shut as I run a hand through my hair. Fuck.
Picking up the compass from the bedside table, I flip it open and point the needle, my head following just slightly to the right, finding north-northwest.
It points out of the house, to the street, beyond the old neighborhood, toward the deserted country road, and into the woods. Toward the one thing I always point it.
Snapping it shut again, I set it on the table and wipe off the sweat on the back of my neck, my palms gritty with grime that’s not really there anymore. The little things…
The grandfather clock downstairs chimes three, and I rise. I won’t get back to sleep.
Descending the stairs of my mom’s old house, I leave the lights off and head into the kitchen, past the empty living room and the boxes of photo albums from the closet. I fill a glass with water and swallow it down, filling it again.
And as I turn north-northwest, I pause for a moment, feeling the tug of that invisible string. I know if I walk forward—across the kitchen, through the wall, past the fence—and straight for six miles, from this spot, I can put an end to it. I can stop dreading the disappointment I’ll cause and start enduring it.
Instead, I drift into the living room, the hardwood floors glowing in the moonlight streaming through the bare windows. The cleaners left the house in immaculate condition yesterday, and aside from a few remaining belongings to dump into storage, the house is ready to be put on the market. My mother left two months ago, thriving in a senior community in Arizona, but she made sure to leave behind the one remnant of our family that she knew I’d never let movers or some realtor throw into the garbage. It was her way of forcing me home. After eight years.
I smile at my father, gazing into his gray eyes. “I’m taller than you now,” I tell him.
His Coast Guard dress jacket and cap hang on the bracket where the curtains were attached. His favorite chair that they used to hang on sits in the storage unit I rented yesterday. I haven’t decided where I wanted the coat and hat yet. Take it with me back to Dubai or leave it in storage here? I’m still deciding.
“Nothing has changed, though,” I continue. “Just like you said it wouldn’t. I knew you were right.”
I swallow hard, staring down at my glass of water. His eyes burn into me, and I almost shrink.
“I’m still not telling anyone, though.” I swirl the water. “And I’m still going to leave in a few days.”
My dad was a lot like Madoc. But my dad is dead, so he never has to be ashamed.
Flicking my eyes back up to his picture on the wall, I study the cap over his light hair and the smile of a hero that makes him look so much younger than me, even though he was the same age as I am now when he died. He smiled a lot too. Just like Madoc.