Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Just lying there is only going to make it worse.”
I jolt at the sound of my father’s voice, but my eyes are still slow to open. They feel like they did that one time in agricultural class where I thought it would be fine to weld without wearing glasses. It’s as if I washed my eyes with sandpaper as I attempt to pull them open.
“Tying one on in your thirties isn’t the same as doing it in your twenties.”
I groan as I roll over, my eyes blinking painfully. “Where am I?”
If I’ve died, I know my own personal hell would be my father nagging me relentlessly about all the bad decisions I’ve made in life.
“The front porch. You better be glad you live on a dead-end road, but I imagine anyone who saw you down at the bar, acting a fool last night, will have a lot to say about it to anyone they see today.”
There’s a hint of humor in his voice, and I have no doubt the man is giddy that I’m going to be miserable for a while.
“How did I end up on the porch?” I ask, wincing when I try to sit up. “Where are the boys?”
“The boys are playing in the yard.”
“They shouldn’t see me like this.”
“Then maybe you should have gone inside instead of deciding to sleep it off on the porch.”
“Where’s Madison? Why didn’t she take them to the park or something?”
“The park? Madison? Boy, just how drunk did you get?”
I feel like death as I swipe my hand over my face.
“Madison is gone. You left the boys with me last night before you went and put your damn liver to the test. This is just like that time when you were in high school and you—”
“Dad, this is the last thing I need right now.”
I don’t bother looking over at him. I know there will be nothing but disappointment in his eyes. I’ve seen it there many times before. He helped me become the hockey player I was. He supported me through every camp, every long drive to play, but then he frowned when I told him I was going to Detroit to play for the Ice Crusaders. He wanted me to be excellent, but only if it kept me in Texas. He acted as if I betrayed him for moving up north to build my career.
“Where’s Madison?” I grumble when the sound of Cole’s laughter filters through my head.
I’m embarrassed to be in this state in front of my kids.
“Probably back home with her parents. That’s where I figure she went after calling me to tell me she no longer works for you. I don’t have a key to your house, or I would’ve had the boys go inside.”
I shake my head, trying to figure out if I fired her yesterday or if she’s slinking off after having sold our story to the damn tabloids. Maybe it’s best that I don’t see her. I knew I couldn’t face her last night. It’s how I ended up at the damn bar.
I fought my anger and that sense of betrayal that started to eat away at me the second I heard her whispered voice in the video attached to that damn article. When I started to tell myself that there had to be some sort of explanation for what happened, I knew I couldn’t come back here. I was already making excuses, and I did that for far too long with Emily. Look where it got me?
I groan as I stand, the front porch making the worse damn bed I’ve ever fallen asleep on.
“Good riddance,” I mutter as I squint toward where the boys are playing.
Dad scoffs but he doesn’t say another word.
I think the man just likes to disagree with me for the sake of arguing.
I thought Madison needed this job, but I imagine the payout from the tabloid would keep her afloat for a while. I imagine she bargained for a high fee considering the details she gave. I wonder if the candid disclosure, the whispering, was part of the thrill in sharing those secrets or if it was suggested by the vlogger to make it sound even more clandestine than it actually was. The only reason I had for wanting to keep it secret was the gossip it would bring to this small town. The people around here don’t need a reason to whisper among themselves. They’d gossip about Old Man Hinkle using Sevin dust, then telling everyone the tomatoes he grew out behind his house were organic.
I run my hands along the front of my jeans, but I come up empty.
“I don’t have my keys or my phone,” I mutter. “Walker probably has them.”
Dad sighs as if being in my vicinity is stress-inducing.
“Give me a minute,” he says as he pulls his own phone from the old-man clip on his belt.