Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
A few seconds later, my hand and stomach were a mess. After I’d mopped myself up with some tissues, I pulled on some sweatpants and went down the hall to the bathroom. Already, the shame was settling in, and I avoided looking at myself in the mirror as I flushed the tissues and washed my hands, scrubbing them as if I could undo what I’d done—or better yet, unthink what I’d thought while I was doing it.
Afterward, I went back to my room and got into bed again, pulling the covers to my waist. My body was more relaxed, but I still wasn’t sleepy enough to drift off. Instead, I lay with my hands behind my head, staring into the dark, trying to rationalize what I’d done.
Maybe it wasn’t that bad. After all, I hadn’t really broken the promise. And she wasn’t just Griffin’s little sister anymore. She was my friend too. She was someone I’d known more than half my life, someone I trusted. She loved my daughter, and she went out of her way to show it. She listened to me. She understood me. She didn’t try to tell me what I should do.
So no wonder, right? No wonder I was feeling something for her, something strong enough to cause a physical response. But it was over now. Out of my system.
Next time I saw her, it would be like it had never happened at all.
The following day, I woke up early like I usually did. Griffin and I normally ran together on Sunday mornings, but I didn’t think he was going to be in any shape for it today, so I got out of bed, pulled on running clothes, laced up my shoes, and set off alone.
The air was bracing—I could see my breath—and it took my muscles longer than usual to warm up. Generally, I was in good shape—I ran a few times a week, lifted weights, played baseball for the county men’s league in the summer and pickup hockey in the winter—but there were some mornings I felt my age creeping up on me.
I picked up the pace a little, lengthening my strides.
Maybe it was a mental thing. My mother wasn’t totally wrong about my feeling stuck—although she was wrong about how to fix it. I didn’t need a girlfriend to get out of this rut, I just needed a change of scenery.
As I finished up the second mile, I thought more about moving out of my mother’s house. We’d needed my mom’s help after losing Trisha so tragically and suddenly, but my plan had never been to stay in my childhood home forever. I’d just sort of grown accustomed to the way things were . . . my mom getting Mariah ready for school because I had to be at work by seven a.m.; meals on the table when I got home twelve hours later; laundry done, folded, and left in a basket at my bedroom door; the house always clean.
Not that I didn’t do my share—I did all the outdoor work, and because my mother was so fastidious, it involved constant mowing, edging, weeding, power-washing, bug-spraying, painting, and other repairs. I was also fairly handy inside the house and was usually able to fix anything that broke, and I took care of her car as well, bringing it to Griffin’s garage for service whenever it was necessary. Whenever I tried to give her money for rent or groceries, she always refused, telling me to put it toward Mariah’s college education fund instead. Once a month, Mariah and I took her out for dinner someplace nice as a gesture of thanks for taking such good care of us.
But it was time for us to move on.
I needed something to get excited about. A project. A place we could make our own. In the past, Mariah had sometimes struggled with change, but I’d involve her in the process every step of the way. She could have any room in the new house she wanted for her own. She could help me paint it. She could get the bunk beds she’d always wanted. I’d talk to the chief about my work schedule, see if there was any room for flexibility on my shift’s start time. We’d have fucking pancakes for dinner if we had to.
And I could jerk off under my own damn roof.
Mind made up, I cut the run short by looping back toward my mom’s after only three miles instead of the usual five, did some cursory stretches in the back yard, then headed inside to call Moretti. He was a builder, not a real estate agent, but he owned rental properties and often bought and flipped houses on the side. I figured he would have an inside scoop on the local market.
Maybe we could even find something in the next couple weeks, and Mariah and I could move in before the holidays.