Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
But I look away and keep walking, seeing him finally pull away out of the corner of my eye. Off to the strip club without me.
I walk toward the light in the garage. Macon shouldn’t be alone so much.
10
Krisjen
Taillights disappear in the distance. As the roar of the cars fades, it leaves the Bay deserted and quiet as I step into Macon’s garage. My Rover is up on the lift, about six inches off the ground, and two of my tires are missing.
The car shouldn’t be taking this long to fix, but I’m not complaining. He’s busy, and I’m lucky to have him at all. And for free.
The speaker on the shelf plays Hozier, and I walk around the car. Sections of paint are sanded off, all places where I had either scratches or maybe a dent or two. I don’t know. I didn’t keep track of every time someone’s car door slammed into mine, or maybe the few times I drove over bushes or through trees, sneaking around with my friends and causing havoc like an idiot.
The driver’s side door no longer has the two-foot-long line of silver paint that I just suddenly noticed one morning after coming out of my house this past summer. Coincidentally, I’d told Milo off (again) the night before. It’s probably related.
Macon steps out of the house, stopping at the top of the stairs. He holds a greasy cloth in one hand, a car part in the other. I clear my throat. “Iron replaced the two tires that were damaged,” I say, walking around the car. “What’s wrong with the other two?”
I’m not going to be nervous. If he tells me to beat it, I will. Let’s see what happens.
But he continues down the stairs, saying instead, “They were bald.”
I follow him with my eyes, taking stock of the dark circles under his eyes that are always there now. I would’ve thought he was going to bed after that shower earlier. I spot the bag of food on the table, still unopened.
I squat down, picking up a piece of sandpaper on the cement floor.
But a hiss hits my ears, and I halt in my tracks, gasping. A snake sits coiled on one side of the garage door, gray with black spots. That’s a …
That’s a …
Oh shit.
I jerk my eyes to Macon, but he’s already there. He leans down, and I open my mouth to scream for him to stop, but he yanks the tail, catches the neck, and I watch as he walks into the street, flinging it into the woods on the other side of the road.
I’m breathing hard, my heart jackhammering, but he turns and heads back to his worktable, not looking at me.
That was a …
That was a …
What the fuck? We have wildlife here, but that was a pit viper. A pygmy rattlesnake. We did a project in sixth grade about the wildlife threats in our area. I remember.
I put my hand over my mouth, ready to vomit.
I swirl my eyes around me, checking for any more. That can’t happen often, right? We don’t actually see them in St. Carmen.
I glance at Macon. He squats down on the other side of the car, and I start to hear sandpaper grinding against the car like what just happened couldn’t have gone bad in a second.
Like going to look for a gator on the loose by himself a couple of weeks ago wasn’t careless, too.
He keeps toying with death.
It takes a moment, but I move for the side of the car opposite him and start sanding the small mark he probably didn’t know was there. He really doesn’t need to fix my paint job, but it’s too late to say anything. He has to fix it now.
I work the paper over the small scratch, but after a couple of minutes, my arm already burns. I reposition myself, putting some muscle into it. The tips of my fingers tingle with the friction.
I look at him through my passenger-side windows, but when he glances up, I drop my gaze again. He’s not kicking me out. I guess that’s a good sign.
But the next thing I know, he’s standing over me. I look up, seeing a pair of gloves in his hand.
“I’m okay,” I assure him.
“Put them on now,” he says. “Women should have soft hands.” I cock an eyebrow. “Why? Because we’re dainty?”
Please …
But he spits out, “Because you’re mothers.”
I look up at him again, and for the first time ever, he blinks. Then he drops his gaze. “Even when you’re not.”
I don’t know what that means, but I stop in my spot. I’m not a mom. I won’t be one anytime soon.
I grind my thumb over my fingertips, taking note that they’re still soft, even though I wash them a hundred times a day at the restaurant. Paisleigh likes the smell of the lotion that Mariette puts next to the sink.