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)
“I’m not.”
“If you have to, no one will mind. But I promise it’s not necessary. My parents aren’t going to—”
Just then, the front door opens, and Aspen’s mom and dad hurtle out. Her dad, as I suspected, has the same sandy hair. Same as Jace’s hair too. Her mom, on the other hand, is a strawberry blonde. And both their hair is shot through with more than a small amount of grey. Her dad is tall and athletically built like Jace, while her mom is on the smaller side. Shorter and more petite.
They rush at their daughter, but they stop themselves from being too rough and frantic. If I had lost a son and a stepson already, and this was my one remaining child, I’d be frantic too. Then I’d reach for the knife set and my torture implements. A rake or a pitchfork would be nice. I’d make it uncomfortable, throwing it back in historically awful ways.
Aspen’s mom caresses her hair while her dad sets a hand on her shoulder.
“Honey,” he says, his eyes misting over. “We’re so glad you’re home.”
Her mom can’t blink back her tears as she hugs Aspen hard. Aspen leans into it, not stiff in the least. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m back, and I’m fine. I also brought Rick with me.” She pats her mom’s back.
Her dad’s eyes track to mine, and I expect to find murderous fire in them. I expect him to be contemplating a garage full of tools and which one he’d like to use on me first. Grinder, skill saw, drill and bits, hammer, chainsaw, bolt cutters…
But his eyes are warm as he holds out a hand to me. “Patrick, it’s good to meet you.”
I’m sure it could be better. I’m sure he’s wired up some kind of taser to the inside of his hand, and somehow, it will only get me and not him. Maybe there’s a tripwire setup. If I take a step forward to shake that hand, I’ll be obliterated by a low-hung flying axe.
Regardless, I shake his hand anyway. It’s the right thing to do.
No tasers. No axes. No flaming arrows or hidden torches. There’s no pit full of spikes that I fall into. Just a warm, firm hand shaking mine.
“Why don’t we sit out in the back? It’s shady there this time of day, and we have new patio furniture. I also made lemonade. You can help me, Aspen. We’ll bring snacks,” her mom says.
Aspen looks both her parents over. “That’s code for my dad wants to grill you about your intentions while my mom takes forever putting together cheese and crackers or cutting up a watermelon.”
“Gentle grilling,” her dad corrects. He’s got a kind face. He doesn’t look at me like he hates me, and that’s more than I could manage if I were him. He doesn’t look at his daughter like she’s reckless, like she’s lost her mind, or like she’s not an adult who can make her own choices.
I can tell they’re relieved she’s back. That she’s safe. They were worried, which makes sense. They’re not jumping all over her, though. They’re not chastising her, embarrassing her, or being rude. Either they’re holding back, or they respect Aspen. She might be their child, but she’s her own person as well.
“Okay,” Aspen agrees reluctantly. She steps away from her parents and squeezes my hand in front of them. I gulp hard, but no one flies at me to throttle me. “But five minutes.” The look she gives her parents is stern. “I mean it.”
“You’re welcome here,” her dad says to me as he nods at Aspen. “If my son wanted you to be a part of our family, then you will be. That’s a promise.”
“It is,” her mom adds softly. She’s crying again—quiet, gentle tears. Her tears seem like an echo of her personality. I can see where Aspen got her gentle spirit from, as well as all the hidden steel inside her.
These people lost a child, and it was only a year ago, but grief didn’t destroy them. They’re still able to stand here and welcome me with genuine sentiment, not because they feel forced or guilted into doing it. I thought the house radiated kindness when I walked up the drive, but if it does, it’s because it’s been permeated over the years with the goodness of this family.
Aspen pats my hand and reluctantly releases it. Then, I do what I wanted to do earlier and jam it into my pocket. We each have a suitcase, and Aspen and her mom grab the handles and pull them into the house. I don’t get a chance to protest about them not lifting it because they do it easily. I’m used to packing light. I think my carry-on-sized bag probably weighs ten pounds, if that.