Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
If there’s no cream, I can deal with milk. I get the jug out, but as soon as I twist the cap off, I can smell how sour it is. I move to dump it down the sink, but Patrick hurries over to me like a wraith, takes it from me, puts the cap back on, and tucks it back in its place. Then, he produces a pack of something out of the pantry. Powdered milk.
He does all this like it is his regular routine. He has to eat. Is he eating stuff like this all the time? Rotten food? Spoiled milk? Was this the kind of thing he had to do over the past few years? And if it’s a yes, then it means Jace had to live the same way. It makes me want to cry.
No shit. It’s going to happen. My eyes are burning, and I know the tears are going to become a reality. I can’t hug my brother, and this man isn’t him, but I have the strongest urge to walk across the kitchen, wrap my arms around his rigid figure as he does the cross-armed—please god, not a hug because I’ll melt if you try that on me—thing, and hug the shit out of him anyway. I want to tell him I’m sorry, I’ll get groceries, and that he doesn’t have to live like this anymore.
I know that sometimes, after a lifetime of living rough, people can’t even sleep in a bed anymore. They have to lie on the floor to be able to fall asleep. Whenever Jace came back to visit, he didn’t sleep much at all. I’d find him up all the time. Does Patrick even sleep at all? He must. No one can live without sleeping.
I pour a little bit of the powdered milk from the bag into the coffee. It’s clumpy, so I stir it with the fork that I just licked clean. My first sip is pretty much like straight-up chewing coffee beans, but aside from it being an exceptionally dark roast, there are hints of caramel and chocolate in there too. It’s bitter enough to pucker a butthole, but really, it’s not that bad.
“I need to get groceries for myself, but if you let me know what you like, I can pick it up too.”
He grunts. I’m not sure if that means he’s annoyed or if it means he doesn’t know what he likes. I mean, he has to, right? It’s been a year and a half since he got out of doing whatever he was doing. It bothers me to think about anyone subsisting on this kind of diet. Well, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just doesn’t like to waste, but good lord, there should be a line. And I’m drawing it. Those shit from the fridge are getting snuck into the trash can as soon as I get home with replacements, and if there’s wrath to be faced, then I’ll face it.
“Patrick.” I can see the dead gardens through the kitchen window. He starts like I’ve set off a firecracker right next to him. He ate all that nasty stuff with a straight face, but now it looks like he’s tasted something that’s an eleven out of ten on the nasty scale.
“Rick please. Not Patrick. I hate that fucking name.”
“Rick. Can I ask you something?” His eyes say no. He tenses. “Do you have a hate for flowers, or are you just really bad at keeping things alive?”
“Yes.” His face blanks out. It’s like watching water go down a drain, and then that drain slams shut.
“Which one?”
“Both.” He turns around, coffee in hand. After a few hard swallows, he sets the mug down. It sounds empty.
“Isn’t letting something that was so incredible go to waste—”
“Incredibly vindictive and absolutely satisfying but ultimately quite juvenile? Yes, probably.” He pivots slowly. I have no idea what my face is doing until he rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not above admitting my flaws. And there are many.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “What would a man like me do with flowers?” That’s gentler and so, so raw. I don’t know why it makes my throat feel thick.
“What wouldn’t you do with them? They’re beautiful,” I say.
“What if they remind you of something you want to forget?”
“What do you want to forget?” I know he’s not going to tell me, but we’ve come this far. It’s a tense conversation. The kitchen is suddenly strung tight, and it feels like I left the gas running on the stove. Explosive.
“The things I never had.”
That slipped out. I can tell. His face now looks like the gross scale has rocked up to a twenty out of ten. I drop my eyes away from his because looking a feral beast in the eye isn’t a smart idea. I take in his all-black attire. It fits him well. He’s so freaking broad that it’s almost hard for me to grasp. He does look nice this morning, in that I’m dressed in black, ready to complete the mission and fuck things up way.