Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Since you're so good at keeping secrets, I'm going to tell you another:
I had another fear as a child.
Just one other.
Goddamn dogs.
Karissa
The sports bar is utter chaos.
Every booth is packed, asses planted in all of the stools, as servers run back and forth and bartenders dish out beer after beer. Naz is still sipping on the same one he ordered over thirty minutes ago. I imagine it has to be piss-warm by now, but it doesn't seem to bother him.
He doesn't seem to notice, for that matter.
He sits across from me in the small wooden booth, posture relaxed but expression faded. The man's here physically, but his mind is somewhere far, far away. Where? I don't know. I'd ask, but he probably wouldn't answer.
He'd just tell me not to worry about it.
That's what he always says these days when I ask things, when he can tell I'm starting to overthink everything again. Don't worry about it. I try not to, but it's hard, given what we've been through, given who he is.
Or who he used to be…
"You're out?"
"About as out as a man like me can possibly be."
"What does that even mean?"
"Don't worry about it. Just know I'm done with all of that."
Out.
Done with all of that.
Hardly.
Over the past year, there have been incidents. Quiet phone conversations and middle-of-the-night disappearances, none of which he ever offers explanations for, leading to days of obsessively cleaning his finally-fixed car or being more paranoid than usual. The cops have come around more times than I care to count, asking about situations and people Naz always feigns ignorance about.
Out, for Naz, certainly hasn't been cold turkey.
Clearing my throat, I pick up the bacon cheeseburger the waitress shoved in front of me a moment ago when she ran past. I take a bite, dramatically rolling my eyes back in my head. Jesus Christ, it's Heaven on a bun. I'm surprised I don't hear trumpets playing in the distance as I chew, wiping the grease from my face when it runs down my chin.
Best burger ever.
"I swear, I could eat these every day," I say. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
Naz's eyes drift my way at the sound of my voice. He's not eating. He says he's not hungry. "I'm not sure that would be good for your health."
"Yeah, but you'd still love me if I gained, like, seven hundred pounds, right?"
A small smile tugs the corner of his lips as he regards me, just enough to show off a hint of his dimples. "Right."
"See? No problem."
"Sure, until you had a massive coronary from the clogged arteries. I already worry about you getting diabetes with as much chocolate as you eat."
I roll my eyes instead of commenting, taking another bite as he laughs. I swallow it down with what's left of my Coke just as the waitress comes speeding by. She skids to a stop, grabbing my empty glass with a smile. "Refill, darling?"
"Yes, please."
She turns her attention to Naz. "Another beer?"
He shakes his bottle. Empty. "Sure."
The waitress scurries away, returning moments later with our drinks. The cap is already off Naz's beer bottle, but he barely gives it a look before taking a sip.
I smile, unable to help myself, as I stare at him. His mind drifts again, his attention elsewhere, but I don't mind. Not really. It gives me a chance to watch him like he usually watches me.
I'm sure, if people knew us, if they knew our history... if they read the fine print that accompanied our story... they'd wonder how I could even be here right now. How I could sit at this table, across from this man, and breathe the same air he breathes, sharing the same space that he occupies. They'd wonder how I could look at him and feel anything besides hatred. How I could see him and not wish him dead.
The truth is, sometimes I wonder those same things.
It makes me wonder if there's something wrong with me. Is it some sort of sickness I've caught? Delirium. Delusions. Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome, or maybe it's a disease I was born with. Not contagious, but genetic, something my mother passed on to me. I see an echo of her in myself. I'm stumbling down the same path she long ago got lost on, a path that reaffirmed her undying love for a man that had been marked for death.
I wonder if this is how she felt, facing the realization that the man she'd chosen to give herself to was the same man who took so much away from her. I wonder if she felt as I feel, if she saw what I see: a flawed man, a tortured soul, a shred of hope inside what everyone else finds utterly hopeless. I wonder a lot, but I'll never have any answers, never get a chance to ask my questions, thanks to the man sitting across from me.
Some days, I'm still so angry about what he did, about how he hurt me, but other days… days like today, when I watch him in silence and see a hint of the vulnerability he usually keeps locked away… I'm afforded a sick sense of relief. Relief that I'll never have my questions answered, that I'll never have to know just how fucked up we all really are.
I finish eating as he sips his beer, staring off toward the nearest television screen. Football is on, the noise from the crowd loud but the silence that surrounds the two of us is comfortable.
After my burger is gone, I shove my plate aside and gaze at the screen. I know nothing about sports. There's a green team and a blue team and they smash into each other like the waves of a tumultuous sea, mixing and mashing and doing whatever the hell they do to score points.
I don't know.
I don't get it.
"I need a job."
My attention darts right to Naz when he says that. "What?"
Sighing exasperatedly, he leans back in the booth, his eyes shifting to me. He stares at me, hard, but his expression remains passive.