Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Thankful that the conversation has momentarily shifted away from me, I drop my head forward, tongue toying with the pointed stick, begging the mint flavors to mollify the shock and sadness and self-hatred that are rapidly attempting to sever my sobriety.
“Collins…,” Jovi sweetly calls to me, collecting my attention once more. “Can we hear the not well-rehearsed version of the story? The one you’d tell your friends or…people you trust.”
Her innocent request given in an equally innocent tone shuts down my defenses.
Shifts my frame forward to rest my forearms on my bent legs.
I don’t wanna stare into her eyes, eyes that are so full of life and love and compassion yet can’t look away.
And it’s the genuine expression of kindness towards a friend rather than a foe in the making that prompts my mouth to spew the rawest truth possible. “Pres was my whole…fucking…world…”
McCoy suddenly drops down on the edge of the table meant for drinks not his ass.
“Pres…”
Fuck, just saying her name places a smile on my face that I haven’t had in years.
It’s not forced or phony.
I’m not having to convince my muscles it’ll be worth it for the discount or new connection.
That it’s necessary to please an old lady so that her biker husband don’t put my head through a fucking wall.
That I need to smile to show I’m not scared shitless in spite of the fact I am.
Saying her name out loud like the blessing it is causes a natural grinning reaction.
To make matters fucking worse, I look like McCoy’s goofy ass when he gets all up in his own shit about Jovi.
“Ohmygod, you’re smiling!” Jovi excitedly coos. “Your face really can make that shape.” She puts down her drink beside McCoy and continues to gush. “And you have such a great smile, Collins…”
An unmistakable growl instantly pours of my roommate.
“It was just a compliment, Merrick. Relax.”
Before he can overreact further, my disloyal mouth moves again. “Pres was the best part of everything.” Their eyes drift back to me. “She made the good shit spectacular and the bad shit two levels above tolerable.”
“I know the feeling,” McCoy quietly concurs.
“Back then? There wasn’t a goddamn thing I wouldn’t have done for her. Especially if it gave her a fucking ounce of happiness.”
“Fuck, I really know that shit…” McCoy’s speech is shakier than anticipated. “So, what happened? How the fuck did you lose her?”
Hearing my father’s drunk, smug voice whispering the words I wished I would’ve refused all those years ago reverberating in the back of my mind pushes me to airily mumble out my confession, “I made a mistake.”
Doc’s demand that I take responsibility for my decisions overpowers the shame trying to conceal my statement.
The bitter truth.
“I,” the beginning of the statement is repeated in a firmer voice, “made a mistake.” Folding my hands together is done after giving my messy hair a comforting tussle. “And the fucked-up fact of the shit is that that mistake cost me everything.”
“This sounds like you need a drink,” Jovi quickly inserts, flagging over what I’m assuming is our assigned server. “First shot of whatever you want is on me or more likely Merrick because he won’t let me pay. Get whatever you want! Even if it’s high dollar shit.” Her mouth doesn’t stop moving long enough for me to insert anything. “And like this feels like a high dollar shit moment. What’s your shit? Tequila? Vodka? Whiskey, which is what’s in that,” she points to the glass she was sipping on, “and somehow tasting amazing.”
“How can I service you?” The waiter asks the instant he arrives.
“Never fucking say that phrase to my woman again,” McCoy growls, damn near rising out of his seat.
Our server lifts his hands in surrender. “Look, man, I’m just tryin’ to stick to the pre-appointed script.”
“This man needs a drink,” Jo says on a sweet finger point my direction after providing her boyfriend with a comforting pat.
There’s no reluctance in my refusal, “I don't drink.”
“Jo…” McCoy attempts to stop her on the sly.
“Come on, Collins. This seems like an okay reason to have just one.”
“I’m a recovering addict.”
Her slightly slack jaw is expected.
“So, no, Jo.” Calmness and cordialness remain in voice. “I can’t have even just one without fucking up my life.”
“Shit,” her weary voice whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I – I – I didn’t know. I would’ve never guessed. I-”
“It’s fine,” I casually lift a hand to cease the verbal flailing. “You’re good.”
Awkward silence starts to settle yet Jovi panic barks, “Get him a root beer in the bottle!”
Our waiter’s eyebrows rise like the rest of us.
“And if you don’t have it in a bottle then put it in an ice-cold beer mug and present it like it’s a real beer.” She pushes a random strand of hair away from her face. “Please and thank you.”