Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Jonas had visited twice while I’d been at the rehab facility in Portland, mercifully without my dad, and we’d spent most of the time talking and eating the takeout he’d brought to give me a break from hospital food. He’d kept his word, though, and had read for a bit from the mystery book each time. Before Christmas, he’d gifted me a subscription to an audiobook service and a list of audio titles I might enjoy, but I didn’t know how to tell him it was him I liked even more than the mysteries.
“Could you point me toward my room?” I asked the kids. I had a pack of tween and teen cousins, but even when I’d been one of the teens myself, I’d always felt a bit removed, unsure of how to interact outside the narrow context of motocross events. Promo I could handle. Small talk, not so much.
“Absolutely. And you don’t have to worry about your bags. I’ll get them.” Rowan picked up both bags, a large black duffel and a red backpack, one in each hand. “Ooh, look at me. Weights and cardio at the same time. Follow me.”
“You sure you can lift both those?” I wasn’t sure what to make of this kid and his obvious delight, all while looking like the wind could carry him away.
“Yep. I delayed my mandatory PE credit until senior year.” Rowan gave a shrug of his slim shoulders while waiting for me to accompany him down the hall toward the rear of the house. “The only thing that fit my schedule this year was a strength training class. Semester two of torture starts after the new year. I need the practice.”
Agreeing with him would be rude, so I adopted a more pragmatic tone. “Everyone is good at something. Maybe you just haven’t found your sport.”
I wouldn’t know because even before discovering motocross, I’d been an athletic kid, Little League, soccer, all that. I had decent hand-eye coordination and good stamina, which served me well when I switched to motocross.
“Have you seen me?” Rowan paused to pirouette, a nifty trick while holding the bags. What he lacked in muscles, he sure made up in grace. “I don’t have a sport unless we’re counting dancing, and even then, it better be for a musical number.”
“Fair enough.” I stifled a laugh. In school, kids like him, theater geeks and poetic types, had made me all kinds of uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure exactly how someone went through life so…free. Now, I was an adult, and the discomfort had given way to something closer to envy.
“This is your room.” Rowan opened another heavy wood door to reveal a large, sunny bedroom. All the blinds were open along a bank of windows that faced the back and side yards. My head started a low-grade ache, but I wasn’t about to ask the kid to close all the windows on my account. The room was an unfortunate shade of avocado with faded spots where pictures had likely once hung. Someone had made the bed with a soft-looking plaid quilt in fall colors with matching pillows. Two doors stood on the wall opposite the bed, and Rowan gestured at the far one after setting my bags down with a thump. “Bathroom through there. Jonas worked with your dad to make sure everything was accessible for you.”
“I don’t need special treatment.” Upon further inspection, I could see little accommodations for me—all hardwood floors, not a rug in sight. A rolling bed tray thing like in the hospital. A peek in the bathroom revealed grab bars and a walk-in shower with a shower chair.
“Dude, be lucky they decided against the hospital bed.” Rowan rolled his eyes at me. “And most of these things were already here from when my other dad was sick.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I’d totally forgotten momentarily that the kids had lost their other dad, Eric’s husband, to cancer a year or so ago. Appropriately rebuked, I tried to sound more grateful as I moved to sit on the bed, pulling my injured leg up to recline, a maneuver I’d gotten way too good at. “This is fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s an ugly mismatch.” Rowan gave a dramatic flourish as he indicated the decor. “But I’m here to help. What’s your favorite color?”
“Uh…black?”
“Not helpful, Declan. Not helpful.” Rowan shook his head regretfully. “Dad said we could paint, but black walls aren’t going to fly.”
“People think of black as the absence of color, but actually, it’s all of them at once,” Wren observed from the door.
“See, it’s a pretty cool color.” I smiled at Wren, who didn’t smile back. “Short stuff agrees.”
That got a deeper frown from Wren and a groan from Rowan.
“We’re not decorating in a black scheme. Sorry, but no.” Rowan narrowed his eyes. “How do you feel about subtle florals?”