Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Lynnette elbows her son. “Anyway, we’re here for the grand tour.”
“Yeah.” I step aside. “Come on in. Excuse the mess. I was in the middle of tiling the main-floor bathroom when you knocked.”
Bryce scratches his chin, peering around. “God, this place used to terrify me. Now it looks like some bright and cheery Airbnb.”
“Bryce,” Lynnette says before turning to me. “I love the lighter paint colors. It really opens the place up. And all the old window coverings are down.”
“Can’t take credit for any of that, but yeah,” I say. “Let me show you around.”
I take them upstairs, walking them through the bedrooms and bathrooms, pointing out a handful of things still needing installed . . . light fixtures, a new faucet in the guest bathroom, fresh paint in two of the bedrooms. On the main level, I take them through the living room, dining room, study, and kitchen.
“Anneliese’s father and I finished the deck last weekend. Just stocked the fridge with beer . . . you want to sit outside a bit?” I offer.
A minute later, we’re perched on the back steps, cracking beers and cracking jokes like old times. I’m in the middle of retelling Lynnette the classic Bryce tale of the time he stole her car to go drag racing on Eleventh Street. He was fifteen, and the ink was still drying on his learner’s permit, but he’s always been overly confident in all his endeavors. He got halfway there when a cop pulled him over, one who happened to be crushing on Lynnette at the time. He threatened to call Bryce’s mom, but in the end, he let him off. The only caveat was he had to shift it into neutral and push it the entire five blocks home.
“Hardest half mile of my life,” Bryce says just before the back door opens.
“Hey.” Anneliese appears in the doorway.
“You must be the famous Anneliese,” Lynnette says before I have a chance to introduce them.
“Famous or infamous?” Anneliese asks, walking toward us. She leans down and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I know Lachlan can be quite the storyteller.”
“You can say that again.” Bryce takes a sip of beer, sneaking in glimpses of her when he thinks I’m not looking. I don’t blame him, though—she’s gorgeous. Today, in her red gingham sundress and her hair twisted and piled on top of her head and delicate gold studs accenting her ears, she’s a sight for sore eyes. Not to mention the sun-kissed glow on her face and the tops of her shoulders.
“You must be Lynnette and Bryce?” Anneliese says. “Lachlan painted quite the picture of you two the other night.”
Lynnette laughs, her voice raspy. “I can only imagine. The kid sure has a way with words, doesn’t he?”
“House looks good,” Bryce says. “Much better than I remember it.”
Anneliese leans back against the railing, completely at ease, her hands cupped around the rail. “Did Lachlan give you the grand tour?”
“He did,” Lynnette says. “Except for your room.”
Anneliese shoots me a look.
“You could’ve shown them,” she says with a shrug before turning back to Lynnette. “You want to see? I’ll take you up.”
If I know Anneliese, she’s only trying to be polite. If I know Lynnette, she’s only gunning for a chance to be alone with her. They disappear inside, and I gather a breath and let it go, staring into the backyard where we used to run around as kids. The tree we climbed still soars high above the rest, twenty years bigger than the last time we scaled it.
“Must be weird for you,” Bryce says. “Living here again.”
“I try not to fixate on it.” I pull at the pop-top of my can until it stands straight up. “It was either this or the Pine Grove Motel.”
“You doing okay?” Bryce asks. “You happy and all that? In life, I mean. Obviously you’re not happy to be back here. At least I don’t think.”
I take a mouthful of beer and contemplate my definition of happiness. I wouldn’t call myself a happy person, but I have pockets of contentedness. I’m happy enough.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Just yeah?” He huffs, like he doesn’t believe me.
“What about you?”
“I mean . . . I’m twenty-eight . . . living in my mom’s basement . . . working sixty-hour weeks in construction . . . single as fuck . . . I think that pretty much speaks for itself.” Bryce laughs, but it’s only there to disguise his bruised pride.
“Sounds like you’re living the dream,” I say. “No bills, no one telling you what to do, no one breathing down your back to be the person they want you to be.”
He takes a drink from his can. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s like . . . is this how it’s going to be forever? Am I going to be fifty-five years old someday, never married, my best years behind me, no kids or grandkids to spoil on Christmas, no one to call and tell me happy birthday once my mom’s gone? No one to fight with over what movie to rent or what restaurant to go to?”