Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
I part my lips, uncertain.
“I’ve done some thinking of my own,” he goes on. “I’m serious about this. It may not occur to you, but I’ve put a lot of pressure on you over the years. A whole lot. Expectations. Duties. Big ones. You asked for none of it, but with your sister and your mom gone, you were the only one I had left. It’s unfair to you. I should’ve paid better attention to your needs. You deserve your own dream.”
“But I don’t have a dream.”
“Then you deserve the freedom to find one.” He puts a hand on my thigh and gives it a pat. “I love you, son, and I’m not gonna make the same mistake again.” Then he returns to driving.
I stare at my dad in wonder, coffee forgotten, my eyes lost in his big gray beard. What does he mean by that?
It seems like only a moment later that we’re pulling up the long driveway of the Strong ranch. When he parks the vehicle, he gets out without another word, and the rest of our heart-to-heart is put on pause, my remaining questions left unanswered.
I pray when I enter the house that Nadine doesn’t see me and ask twenty questions about where I was last night. If I’m lucky, she never even noticed I was gone. Mercifully, I manage to get inside the house, hurry up the stairs, and slip into the bedroom without being seen. After a moment to take a breath, once again by myself, I move to the reading chair in the corner, take a seat, then slowly sip my coffee in silent contemplation. Every minute that passes is long. Every thought I have feels strange and slippery, like it isn’t my own. Each bitter sip of coffee I take is a punishment.
My dad will be doing his thing now.
The Strongs are gearing up for their youngest to get married.
This day is not about me.
All I can do is sit in this reading chair and think about all of my stickiest feelings and memories. Each time my mind goes back to that dinner date three and a half years ago, I seem to remember it differently. Did Bobby and I even click at all? Was our chemistry all in my head? Did I imagine each time Bobby laughed at a joke or glanced sweetly across the table at me? Did I confuse “politeness” for “totally not interested but enduring this date anyway”?
Did we ever actually stand a chance?
I wonder how differently I’d feel right now if I’d actually gone on another date with someone else that year. Or two other guys. Ten. Would my feelings and expectations about Bobby have faded away? Would I have realized then how incompatible we were?
Was Jimmy right to rescue him from me?
My eyes move to the trash bin sitting under the window, my mind still floating in that ocean of twisting memories. I set my cup of coffee down on the windowsill, carefully roll up my sleeves, and reach into the trash. Once every last bit of torn paper is pulled out, I start to arrange the pieces at the nearby desk like a puzzle. After eight and a half minutes, the shreds are in place. I consider taping it together, but the ink is still smeared and not easily readable in places. This won’t do. So I search through the desk drawers, find a fresh sheet of paper and a pen, and start to write what I can make out from the shreds. Some words, I have to improvise. The silly misspellings, I obviously correct. Awkward grammar, too. Really, I know Jimmy poured all of his heart into this, but these vows are just cliché after cliché after boring words after more clichés. His third grade poem he joked about is probably better than this.
I guess I’ll do better on his behalf.
Once done, I lift the sheet off the desk, take it to the reading chair, sit, and look it over one last time. Let’s be honest here: this is probably the first time anything has actually been read in this chair, considering its previous occupant.
I fold up the piece of paper at last, satisfied.
This one won’t get put through the laundry, I’ll promise that.
To further clear my head, I decide a shower is what I need. Once I’m all cleaned and dried, I get dressed in a comfortable yet presentable dress shirt and slacks, give my hair and face an adequate but modest amount of love in the mirror, then make my way down the stairs into the madness.
The house has become twice as chaotic as it was a few hours ago. Boxes here. Decorations there. Flowers here and there and everywhere. It feels like everyone in Spruce showed up to help get organized for the reception taking place here after the wedding.