Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Truett
It was raining. Why the fuck wouldn’t it be? Karma had really pulled out all the stops for me over the last few weeks. Closing The Grille, having Gwen buy it, what next? Sink hole under my house? Gangrene in the hand I jerked off with? The options were limitless. With the way my life worked, I should have been grateful it was only a little rain and I hadn’t been struck by lightning yet.
Though the day wasn’t over. Still plenty of time for the universe to fry my ass.
I was well aware that I looked like a fool sitting on that bench as the clouds emptied around me. Hell, even cockroaches were smart enough to hide during a storm.
Not me though.
Not on a Wednesday.
After a lifetime of chaos and agony, predictability was the only thing that kept me sane—if you could even call me that.
I thrived on routine—every minute having a purpose. A therapist had once told me it was about control. He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was about survival.
I could handle the days. Wake up, workout, eat, work. Easy enough. It was the freedom in evenings that I struggled with the most.
Mondays were straightforward. I’d fire up the grill in my backyard, the aroma of sizzling chicken breasts filling my senses—a practical and completely mundane start to the week. Post-grilling, I’d meal-prep lunches for the next few days and then settle into the corner of my tattered couch until Netflix lulled me to sleep.
Tuesdays had their own elements of excitement. The night would highlight Chinese delivery while I’d distracted myself by spinning online slots on my phone—the hum of ESPN in the background giving me the illusion of company.
The rest of the week was a series of slightly tweaked redundancy.
But Wednesdays were different. They were sacred. The Grille was my last remaining anchor to the real world. Each week, when I took that first step out of my house, I’d feel a flicker of hope—however misguided as it might have been.
Don’t get me wrong. I hated my weekly outings with the intensity of a thousand suns, but it was a predictable torture and therefore comfortable agony.
I didn’t know how to function without Wednesday nights. Would Thursdays even exist without them?
Would I?
I told myself not to go. To respect Gwen’s wishes and stay away. But call it obsession, habit, or muscle memory, at six p.m. on the dot, fueled by nothing more than a mixture of dread and necessity, I walked to a restaurant where I was no longer welcome.
Desperation gave me a delusional tunnel vision. I’d honest-to-God convinced myself that when I arrived everything would be as it should.
The Grille would be open.
My booth and a club sandwich would be waiting for me.
And the confrontation with Gwen had been nothing but a nightmare fabricated by my self-loathing subconscious.
But reality, as always, had a different script.
Hell-bent and determined, I fought the urge to knock on the door and attempt to convince her to let me inside. It would have no doubt turned into a rerun of the week before, but it was worth a try. Wednesdays were always worth a try.
But at what cost? At whose cost?
I watched her through the window as she paced back and forth, her phone pressed to her ear. With her forehead crinkled and her lips pursed, she was downright pissed. It was an expression I recognized well. When we were younger, I’d all but permanently painted it on her face.
Pained memories tore through me. What the fuck was I doing? How could I be such a selfish prick? Gwen had put up with enough of my bullshit to last a lifetime. But there I was, literally and figuratively dragging it right back to her doorstep.
How was that fair to anyone but me?
Despite my every waking moment saying otherwise, I wasn’t living in a nightmare.
The Grille wasn’t open.
No booth awaited me, no sandwich—just the cold, unyielding rain echoing my failures.
With my tail tucked, I dodged puddles as I walked across the street, hoping and praying she wouldn’t see me. She could go about her life, and I could go about mine. Though I had no fucking idea what that looked like without Wednesdays.
So there I was, sitting on the bench, staring at what used to be my weekly sanctuary, the bitter taste of nostalgia souring my stomach, when I heard footsteps approaching.
My gaze flicked up and I found Gwen trotting toward me, a plastic cafeteria-style tray held over her head, shielding her from the elements.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her tone surprisingly gentle, if not resigned.
I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I’d taken the time to prepare a lie. “Just hanging out.”
She slanted her head. “Right. Who could resist such a beautiful evening?”
A reluctant smile tipped my lips—the absurdity of the situation not lost on me. “It’s perfect if you need to, say, test a new water-resistant jacket.”