Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I kept thinking that he'd say or do something, but he never said a word.
And neither did I.
About half an hour in, a car pulled into the lot, shining its bright lights on us. I didn’t think much of it until I noticed the man’s expression had suddenly changed and had become eerily fierce. It took me a moment, but I soon realized he was staring at my arm. He’d seen the bruises my father had left on me, and he was clearly bothered by them.
I moved my arm to my side and pretended that it wasn't bothering me, but it was clear from his expression that it was bothering him. He took another deep, cleansing breath, then stepped forward and towered over me.
"Look, kid. I'm starving." His voice was low and steady as he continued, "How about we go inside, and I'll buy you a cheeseburger."
I glanced up at him, and I could see that he was being genuinely sincere. For a second, I almost agreed to take him up on his offer, but then I remembered how my mother had told me never to talk to strangers. The memory of her warning had me shaking my head.
"They make really great burgers, kid." Again, his voice was low and reassuring. "You sure you don't want one?"
"I like chicken nuggets," I answered as I stared down at my shoes.
"They've got chicken nuggets."
I thought for a moment, then finally answered, "Okay."
I stood and brushed the dust and rocks off my backside, then followed the man over to the front door. Once we were inside, I headed to the back of the diner and sat down in one of the corner booths. I rested my elbows on the table, propped my chin in my hands, and watched as he sat down across from me.
He settled back in the booth, then motioned over to the waitress. Once he'd ordered our food, he turned his attention back to me. "You live around here?"
"No," I answered, playing with the paper from my straw.
I folded the paper into several different shapes and then turned my focus to the other items on the table, putting them each in a perfectly straight line. I was taking the salt and pepper shakers in and out of the line when the waitress brought over our food. I dove into my chicken nuggets, and it wasn't long before I started to feel more at ease.
I looked up at the man, staring at his tough features as I announced, "You've got a bushy beard and lots of tattoos."
"Yeah, I do."
"The internet says that tattoos are a form of self-expression. That each tattoo has an important meaning."
"I'd say that's about right."
"You also drive a Harley Davidson motorcycle."
"You're pretty observant, kid."
I took another bite of my chicken nugget as I told him, "Harley Davidson motorcycles were founded in 1903, and they were first used by police officers in Detroit, Michigan."
This man was big and had a threatening appearance, but I didn't think twice about rattling off all the facts I'd learned about Harleys. It was something I'd never do with my ol' man—at least, not anymore. He had no patience for my lust for information and was quick to tell me so. I had so many things I wanted to share with my father, but I learned it was best to just keep my mouth shut.
It felt good to be able to speak freely, especially with a complete stranger. Not once did I feel like I was weird or there was something wrong with me. I didn’t feel like an outcast or something less. I felt like a regular kid sharing something that was important to me with a friend.
I continued to talk to him about various Harleys and the men who first drove them. In between breaths, he ordered me a sundae, then asked, "You gonna tell me why you're hiding out in the parking lot?"
"Momma told me to come here, to the Old Mill Café, if something bad ever happened." I swallowed hard before adding, "It's our secret place."
Before he could respond, the waitress brought over a sundae and placed it on the table. I immediately grabbed my spoon and started to dig in. As I ate, I looked around the room. The diner was quiet, just an elderly couple sitting at one of the front tables. From time to time, the old lady would turn and sneak a peek at us, clearly curious about what was going on with us, but I didn’t care.
I was perfectly content sitting there with him. I had a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach as I looked up at him and said, "Thank you. This is good."
"You got a name?"
"It's Wyatt."
"My name's Stitch."
"Your momma named you Stitch?"
"Nah. My mother named me Griffin, but all my brothers in my club call me Stitch."