Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
2
DRUNK ON GRIEF
It’s been a year since Ruthie died, and Fletcher is not okay. He works, drinks, smokes cigars, and sleeps. And he gets mad about everything.
“I’m hungry,” I say just after eight at night while rubbing my rumbling tummy.
Our chef Micah has been on vacation for the past week. Ruthie used to try new recipes when Micah took time off, even though he left her pre-made meals. There are dishes in the fridge, but Fletcher won’t let me use the stove or oven. Micah will be back in the morning, but I don’t know if my stomach can wait until morning.
“Then eat something,” Fletcher mumbles, swirling the golden liquid in his glass while staring at a TV that isn’t turned on. A cigar hangs from his other hand. I’ve been putting them in ashtrays after he falls asleep. Pauline said I should make sure he doesn’t burn the place down.
“I haven’t had any fruit today. Ruthie always—”
“Well, she’s not here, Indiana,” Fletcher’s voice booms. After a few seconds, he exhales a long breath mixed with a cough that echoes in the tall ceiling. “There’s peanut butter and jelly. Jelly’s a fruit. If you can’t make yourself a sandwich, you’re not hungry. Eat. Brush your teeth. And go to bed.” He closes his eyes while puffing the cigar.
There’s a chill in the air, so I rub my arms. Since Ruthie died, Fletcher keeps the place really cold. On hot days, I walk into the house and the sweat on my skin turns to icicles. I think it’s cold because he’s cold. Like the Grinch.
I stand completely still in the doorway, wishing my heart would be quiet, but it only pounds harder in my chest with each breath I take. He never treated me like this when Ruthie was alive.
“I can’t open the peanut butter. The lid is too—”
Fletcher’s eyes open, and they look black. “If you don’t get out of my goddamn sight, so help me, Indiana, I’m going to make sure you can’t sit down for the next month. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, slowly backing out of the hearth room and sprinting away, but not upstairs. I run out the door, down the lane, and veer to the right, making my way to the barn.
As soon as I throw open the door, I’m met with darkness and silence. “Milo?” I yell, feeling something between a scream and a sob break from my chest.
“What’s up, Indie girl?” It sounds like “indigo” when he says Indie girl, which I like because Ruthie used to say she loved my indigo eyes.
I spin around. Milo wipes his sweaty brow while kicking his boots against an old fence post. He looks tired the way Ruthie looked before she died.
“Are you sick?” I shuffle my feet to him, each step heavy with worry.
He chuckles, squinting at me as the sun, low in the sky, hits his dirt-smudged face. “I’m sick of long days and short nights.”
“Are you going to die?”
He peels off his filthy shirt and uses it to wipe his face. I don’t know why. It only spreads the dark streaks even more.
“Not today. Why?” He takes heavy steps to the back of the barn, where there’s a hose attached to a spigot.
I jump out of the way as dirt splatters in all directions from the hard stream of water.
“If you die, I won’t have anyone.” I ball my fingers and twist my wrists.
Milo shakes the water from his head like a dog before drinking long gulps from the hose. After he turns it off, he slicks his hair out of his face.
“Who did you have when your parents died?” I ask.
Milo blinks slowly. “I had Fletcher and Ruthie.”
I frown. “Ruthie died. And Mr. Ellington is mean to me. I don’t have anyone. And I didn’t have dinner. No fruit. No vegetables.”
“Indie …” He blows a long breath, one hand on his hip. It reminds me of Fletcher.
I’m annoying Milo too. My chin dips, and I stare at his dirty boots.
“You have me,” he says.
He doesn’t mean it.
“Indiana?” He leans forward, resting his hands on his knees, water dripping from his hair.
I glance up at him. Even after a long day, all I smell is leather, coffee, and cinnamon. I think it’s what my new happiness smells like. It’s what I believe a man should smell like.
Milo smiles, his teeth so white. His skin so tan. “Okay?”
“For how long,” I whisper.
His dark brows meet in the center of his forehead. “For as long as you need.”
“Forever?” I look into his blue eyes; they’re a safe place for me.
Standing straight, his long legs carry him toward the front of the barn. “One day at a time, Indie. Let’s start with dinner.”
“I need fruit. We should go pick figs.”
Milo turns toward me, his body slumped. He’s tired. “I was thinking grilled cheese.”