Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Fine, but this isn’t over, we're still going to talk about it,” Brandon said, pinching my cheek to turn my face back to normal.
"Promise?" I asked, sarcastically.
"Smart ass," he mumbled. Brandon tipped his chin to the house. “You know, your dad didn’t ask you to do this,” he pointed out. “And I’m pretty sure he’d be pissed if he found out.”
“Well then, we won’t tell him now will we?”
“I thought part of your NA thing was no lies.”
“It’s not like I’m telling him I’m taking his car for a ride to the mall when in reality I'm planning to trade it to a chop-shop for a day’s worth of dope. It's not like I'm even lying; I’m simply omitting the truth for his benefit, not to his detriment.”
"Whatever lets you sleep at night," Brandon said, rolling his eyes dramatically. He pushed the sleeves of his button-down shirt up his forearms arms. “Be sure to run it by your sponsor, Andrea. I think she'll have something to say about the logic you've concocted on that one."
“You leave Edna out of this,” I jokingly warned, wagging my finger at him.
I shielded my eyes from the sun as I turned from Brandon to look up lovingly up at someone else I love. Someone much older, showing a lot more wear-and-tear.
Mirna’s house.
And because Preppy stuck to his word, MY house.
My heart skipped a beat like I was on a first date. Immediately, I spotted the lines on the front porch post where my grandfather used to mark my height as a kid, and the crooked light on the side of the house that became that way when I was testing out an archery set my grandma had gotten me for my birthday one year. I even loved the way all the trees in the front of the house leaned to the left, the result of a hurricane that hit the summer I was nine. My old friend was in need of some repair, having sat neglected for a few years, but she was still beautiful to me. She always would be.
Even if she won’t be mine for much longer.
The step on the porch, the one I'd fixed before, was warped again. This time it was the other side curving upwards in a wing-like position as if it was about to take flight. The roof had lost a lot of shingles, leaving blotchy patches of faded tar paper peeking out from underneath.
The entire house was like another character in the story of my life.
An important one.
All through rehab, getting my GED, going to the local community college, I’d always had this idea. A plan to move to Logan’s Beach permanently after I graduated. I’d fix up the house and make it a place I could be proud of in a town that I could never quite shake.
For better or worse, Logan’s Beach was a part of me.
A place where my life almost ended, and where it almost just began.
However, if I’d learned anything about life post-rehab, it’s that plans change, and you must learn to adapt. First order of adjusting: Sell the house to help dad.
“You’ve always talked about how much you love this place,” Brandon said with his nose wrinkled as he looked it over, like he couldn’t understand the appeal in a shaggy old cottage on a forgotten road in the middle of a little town with two street lights and three stop signs.
“I do love this place,” I argued. “But I love my dad more. Selling it is the least I can do for him.”
“Dre, it’s not your fault that his business isn’t doing great,” Brandon pointed out. “He owns a bookstore when the world has shifted to buying books online through Bookazon dot com.”
“I know, but it IS my fault he took out a second mortgage to send me to rehab and a personal loan to send me to school. He brought Mirna up to live by us in a facility that cost a lot more and took on all of her expenses because I wanted to be close to her in her final days. It’s because of me that he’s swimming in debt. I may not be the reason his business is failing, but I AM the reason he’s losing his house,” I said choking up when I thought about all the pain my addiction and my lies and my lack of giving a shit had caused him through the years.
Brandon raised an eyebrow at me and tucked his thumbs into his belt. He glanced at the house then back to me. Looking confused and out of place. Sweat stains formed around the collar of his white dress shirt, the material too thick for the wet heat of Southern Florida. The humidity caused his usually tame dark hair to jut out from his head at every available angle. His overly tanned skin stood out against his crisp white dress shirt which he pulled from the waistband of his pants, fanning it up and down to trap air underneath. If I watched him much longer, I was pretty sure he was going to melt right there on the driveway.