Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“We gotta get to work,” Dallas says, interrupting my thoughts. “Come on.”
They leave, and slowly, I follow them out, wishing I could at least see where Iron will be sleeping. As if it’s a summer camp and I get to approve it before I let him stay.
I walk next to Army, trying to hold back, but I can’t. Someone needs to say it. “Look, I know Iron kind of asked for this,” I say to him, “but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s scared shitless.”
Outside, clouds are covering the sky and Trace and Dallas head through the parking lot.
“He looks up to Macon,” I bite out, “and Macon doesn’t show up for anyone. I never saw him at any of Liv’s games. He didn’t even put in an appearance at Dex’s birthday party. All Iron needed was a kind word from him, and Macon—”
But Army turns, glaring down at me, and I lose my train of thought. “Once,” he states, “when we needed Macon, he was there for all of us.”
“Well, not anymore.”
“You don’t get it.” He searches my eyes. “I love Iron, but all he did was think about himself. It’s our turn, dammit. Macon needs us now.”
I watch him walk off, realizing he’s just as angry at Iron as Macon is.
Army hides a lot.
“Order up!”
I cock my head, using my shoulder to rub behind my ear to catch the sweat trickling down. I grab the plate, and then another, taking a second glance and tossing it back under the warmer. “This was supposed to be rice!”
I’m not yelling. It’s just loud. There are fifteen conversations going on in the restaurant, not to mention Aracely carrying on her conversations as she moves plates about the room, even if it means shouting.
I’m glad it’s busy, though. It helps to keep me from thinking about Iron and what he’s doing right now. It feels like we dropped him off a year ago, instead of just yesterday.
The cook grabs the plate. “Give me three minutes.”
“I don’t have three!” I blurt out, and snatch Summer’s plate from her, spooning the rice from her dish onto mine.
“Krisjen!”
“My order was first,” I tell her. “My rice.”
I carry the food off, swiping a ketchup bottle and pinching it between my elbow and hip as I go.
“I’m considering this payback for that onion ring incident!” Summer yells. “We’re even now!”
“Affirmative.”
I set the plates down in front of the two ladies, one of them so beet red, they have to be tourists.
I drop the ketchup at table eleven and grab the Coke I left at the bar, setting it in front of Sam Martinez, who comes in only when his wife puts tuna sandwiches in his lunch, which he hates but doesn’t have the heart to tell her.
“Here you go,” I tell him, dropping a fresh straw next to the drink.
“Thanks, hon.” He cuts into his steak. “Keep ’em coming.”
“Will do.”
My phone rings in my back pocket, and I pull it out, seeing Bateman’s name on my screen. I answer it, holding it to my ear as I start clearing the dirty dishes at table twelve. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Krisjen …”
He’s breathless. I pause.
“I’m sorry about this,” he says. “But you have to come home.”
I stop, standing up straight. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother is two hours late from her lunch appointment,” he tells me. “And I told her I could stay only so long today.”
But I tear off my apron, leaving the dishes as I ask, “Why are you even there? The kids are at school. My mom dropped them off this morning.”
“No,” he retorts. “It’s some staff-development thing that I’ve had on my calendar since August. The kids are off today, and I have my own errands to run. Your mom assured me she’d be back by two.”
I dart my eyes up to the clock above the breakfast bar. It’s after four.
“Can you please stay?” I ask him. “I’m really sorry, I just—”
“And your mom also hasn’t paid me in five weeks, either.”
I hesitate. “What?”
Bateman doesn’t say anything for a moment, and while I’m grateful he’s continued to come, I can’t imagine anyone else would’ve. What the hell is going on with my parents?
“I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem,” he tells me, “but I can’t get ahold of her, and I’ve had it. I need to leave.”
For today or for good? I exhale hard. “Oh—okay. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, babe.”
I hang up and swing around the counter, taking out my bag.
“Order up!” Mariette calls.
I dial my mother. I’m not worried, but if she’s on her way home, then I can stay and finish my shift at least. The call goes to voicemail, and I hang up, immediately dialing my father, who I know won’t answer.
“Krisjen! Order up!”
I wait for his voicemail and clench the phone in my hand, turning away from the customers at the counter. “I promise,” I grit out over my father’s voicemail, “you won’t be able to walk out of your fucking house someday without hearing my name. You are going to be sorry I was ever born.”