Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 810(@200wpm)___ 648(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 810(@200wpm)___ 648(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
“That sounds about right,” Norma agreed quietly.
She looked sad, and for the first time in a long time, I knew she needed my reassurance.
“You’re doing the right thing, Norma,” I said. “You’re taking care of yourself right now, and that’s all that matters. If Brayden can’t see that, then that’s his issue, not yours.”
“I know,” she agreed. “But I’m just… I’m worried about him, Brighton.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I was too.
“How’s he paying the rent now that you’re gone?”
“He’s not.” She glanced down at her hands as she twisted them in her lap. “He said he’s living in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” The word came out as a whisper. “With who?”
She didn’t reply. But I didn’t need her to. Brayden wouldn’t have told her who he was there with, but it was obvious to both of us. And it scared the hell out of me.
“You don’t think he’s getting tied back up with…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. How could he keep doing this to his family? For someone who said he cared, he didn’t seem to think about how any of his actions might affect us.
“I don’t know for sure,” Norma admitted. “But, he’s just like his father. Thinks he’s too good to get a real job. I’m afraid to even ask him what he’s doing.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said, sounding more confident than I actually felt. “You just focus on getting healthy, Norma. Okay?”
I gave her a watery smile, and she returned it. “Okay, Brighton. I love you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ryland
When I was a child, my mother used to take me down to the pier every weekend and spend an entire day devoting herself to doing whatever I fancied. Sometimes it was sailing, often times the aquarium, there were even the occasional bouts of watching sea lions frolic about.
Whatever the occasion, we had a tradition, she and I. She’d always take me to Dreyer’s after and let me stuff my face with ice cream till’ I wanted to puke. I must have sampled every flavor and topping combination my tiny brain could conjure up about a dozen times over. But not Katherine.
She preferred vanilla. Plain old, nothing added, boring as hell vanilla. I couldn’t comprehend such a thing in my child-like noggin. There were so many other flavors. So many different possibilities. When I told her so, she’d laughed and stroked my cheek in a way that mothers do.
“Someday, sweet Jacob,” she said. “Someday, you’ll get it.”
Sitting in my office- twenty years later- I finally got it. I leaned forward to brush the pads of my fingers over the framed photo of Brighton’s pretty face. This dirty little habit of mine was starting to rival Norma’s.
It all made perfect sense to me now, what my mother said. Vanilla was pure and unsullied. Cleansing to the palate, you had to savor it to appreciate it. I could sip at Brighton’s vanilla sweetness for a thousand years and never be fully satisfied. I’d always replenish her, though. I swore it. I’d break her a thousand times if only so I could put her back together again.
Piles of work were strewn about my desk, forgotten and ignored. Everything was out of order and inviting chaos into my life. Care factor? Nil. The drive for what I did disappeared off a ridge along the Pacific Coast Highway on a night not too long ago.
Today was July 29th. My birthday. Did it surprise you that I was a lion? It shouldn’t.
Birthdays had ceased to exist for me six years ago. I doubted Brighton had any special mark of this day on her calendar. But if she had, I wondered what she’d have gifted me. She was thoughtful and attentive. It wouldn’t be anything expected in circles such as mine. Seven fold ties or cufflinks made from the tusks of endangered species. No fine Cuban cigars or two-hundred-year-old bottles of scotch would spew forth from her hands.
Brighton would give something from the heart. Something that mattered.
I had an inkling of a few things that would’ve pleased me. Her waltzing into my office in white lingerie, getting down on her knees and sacrificing herself at my alter. Oh wait, she’d already done that. Still, there was nothing like a good old fashioned reenactment.
Would I have taken it all back if I could? That first day in the hotel room when I’d unknowingly altered my course so drastically. Probably not. I wasn’t a saint, never would be. Those memories with Brighton were a lot like a penicillin shot. Painful, but necessary at times. They still made something in the vicinity of my chest stir every now and again.
From what you know of me, I’d gather you’d assume I was more than a little twisted. And you’d be right.
I wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, I was a normal twenty-four-year-old who brought women flowers and took them to dinner. I never even considered being anything other than respectful towards them.