Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Abbie
Abbie
After we haul ourselves out of bed, I spend most of the morning lazing in front of the fire while Reed works at the table. When I finally spur myself into starting our Christmas dinner, he’s right there helping. Then he helps with the cleanup after.
Now, with dishes done and my belly full, I’m lazing in front of the fire again, reading on my phone but thinking about taking a nap. Reed’s in the other armchair, eyes closed—a napping overachiever.
At least, that’s what I assume he’s doing, until he suddenly says, “I’m begging for mercy, Abbie. I’ve wracked my brains but I’ve come up with nothing. Where the hell did you get a name like Hot Biscuit Slim?”
Oh. I didn’t tell him before, simply because I didn’t want to expose any part of myself that could be vulnerable. Yet now I don’t hesitate before telling him, “It’s kind of a two part answer, but with the same overall source. When I was little, we had a fluffy white cat that Lauryn and I named Cream Puff Fatty. After my dad…well, Mom never let us get another. So I swore that when I got my own house, I’d get a cat and name him Hot Biscuit Slim.”
“Then you got your house and your cat.”
“Yes.”
He gives me one of his searching looks. “When you escaped from home the first time, why didn’t you end up on the other side of the country? As desperate as you were to go, it doesn’t seem like you went far.”
“The first reason is that in-state tuition was cheaper. Plus I like this area—not far from the mountains, not far from the beach. And I did get over to the other side of the city. The cheaper side,” I say, laughing. “That was far enough until they moved in. But you didn’t go far, either?”
“Yeah, that was some good old nepotism at work—though at the beginning I told myself it wasn’t. But the Knowles name sure didn’t hurt when I was fresh out of college and hired on with the county inspecting new construction. Then when I struck out on my own, it was smarter not to start over somewhere else. I had contacts already through the county job—and from growing up as Knowles’s kid.”
I can’t mistake the faint note of self-derision in his voice. “Do you feel like you haven’t earned what you’ve gotten because of that?”
“Don’t know. I’ve earned some of it. Though the name sure made it easier.”
“I know how that goes. I used my father’s money to buy my house. Harris pays well but I couldn’t have afforded one without it. Not yet.”
Somehow Reed hears what I didn’t say, not even yesterday. “And that makes it even harder—with your mom and sister?”
Silently I nod.
I feel his gaze on me for a long moment. Then he says, “So you got your house and Hot Biscuit Slim. But where did you get that name?”
“My dad used to read real stories from American history to Lauryn and me before bed. Paul Bunyan was our favorite. Cream Puff Fatty and Hot Biscuit Slim were the cooks at his logging camp.”
“Paul Bunyan, the lumberjack? With the blue ox?”
“Babe. Yes.”
His brows arch. “These were real stories from American history?”
“Mmm-hmm. So we learned how he created the Mississippi by dragging his axe behind him when he got tired.”
“Because that’s always how rivers are made.”
“Then there was the great popcorn blizzard. Because his men were starving, so he walked down to Kansas and bought a giant sack of corn, but on his way back the sun was so hot it all started to pop. I think of that every time it snows—or make a popcorn string.” I gesture to the garland over the fireplace.
“Your poker face is fucking incredible. Though now I’m wondering if your ‘I only read non-fiction’ is another tall tale.”
“It’s true, though. Maybe because it’s often wilder than a lot of fiction. And there’s plenty of romance, tragedy—and horror.”
“Real life offers plenty of inspiration, for sure.”
I eye him curiously. “Why horror, though?”
He shrugs and stretches his legs out, settling deeper into his chair. “It’s just one of the things I’ve always enjoyed reading. Not the gore, but the monsters and the weird shit. And the way people are so resilient despite their fear and pain. Despite everything they go through, they fight and persevere.”
“So you don’t write the ones where everyone ends up dying?”
“No. Not everyone lives, though, and I can’t say mine always end happily.”
“Because they’re traumatized by what they’ve gone through?”
“Yeah.” His gaze holds mine. “But they get through. And that’s the point.”
I like that a lot. “How did you get started?”
“By being lazy. Word around campus was that one of the tenured English professors gave As to anyone who showed up and put in the work. His creative writing class fulfilled a requirement, so Harris and I both took it…and it turned out I liked doing it. I was working on my stories even when I’d already completed the assignments. And I just kept on. Even after I was done with school, I’d write when I wasn’t working. I had five novels finished when I finally decided to try sending one in.”