Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Yeah.” The word lands bitter and sweet. “I wanted to belong to someone. It felt like love.”
He doesn’t tell me it wasn’t. He doesn’t have to. The silence is honest between us.
“Tomorrow,” he states finally. “PO box. Shop. We’ll see about the rest when we get there.”
“Okay.” I run my thumb over the edge of the notebook. “Thank you.”
He nods like we made a deal. I guess we did except there isn’t anything in it for him.
Later, after we’ve both showered and the day has leaned itself fully into dark, I take the notebook to bed like a child with a treasure. I lay it on the nightstand and slide under the sheet. I leave a foot of space between us because tonight I want to see if I can sleep without being held like a drowning person. I need to fix myself this time, not have someone catch me because I’ve fallen. My body hums with tired that feels like I might be able to do this.
“If you’re done with writing, light out okay.” he requests, already half on his back, one arm thrown up, relaxed in the way only he does.
“Yeah.” I click the lamp off because it’s on my side. The room glows faint-blue from the streetlight outside. The security light hums. The world is ordinary and it feels like a miracle.
“Kristen,” he mutters into the near-dark.
“Yeah?”
“You did good today.”
My throat closes. I stare at the ceiling and pretend I’m not absorbing the words like the last drop of water in a canteen. “Thanks,” I whisper.
He grunts, which means you’re welcome, and turns a little toward me. I don’t slide onto his chest even though I want to. My hands fold on my stomach like prayer. I wonder for a moment if he’s going to pull me into him, but he doesn’t. I guess he reads my body language. Sleep comes eventually, not as easy, but I do manage to get there on my own.
Doing things on my own, that encompasses all of the next things. Yes, Kellum is right. I did good.
Eight
Kristen
The next morning, I wake before the alarm I didn’t set. Habit, fear—who knows why, but I’m up. Dawn is a pale smear along the blinds. Somewhere a dog barks and then gives up. The air conditioner sighs and then is quiet, leaving just the hum of the refrigerator.
Kellum isn’t in bed. The dent where he slept holds his shape like memory. The smell of coffee floats down the hall, and I follow it with the notebook tucked under my arm and my hair pulled into a messy knot using one of the elastics I bought with so much ceremony.
He’s at the table with two mugs and a small stack of mail. A key sits next to one mug. Not the front door key—smaller, brass, with a number stamped into it. He nudges it with his knuckle when I sit. “PO box key,” he explains. “Already rented it when they opened this morning. Box number’s on the tag. You have an address today.”
My chest does a weird stutter. “You did it already?”
He shrugs. “I was up.” He takes a swallow of coffee. “Next thing.”
“Next thing,” I echo, and the words don’t taste foreign anymore.
He looks at the notebook under my arm. “You bring your homework?”
I smile, “Always.” I open it to yesterday’s list. At the bottom, in tiny letters during our chat, I added, Find something you love because the idea felt so extravagant I didn’t want to tempt it by writing it big. It just hit me, though, if I’m rebuilding my life then I should find things that matter to me.
He scans the page and nods once. “That’ll do. We’ll knock these out this week. Try to get shit done before you start work Thursday. Get you set up.”
“Bossy,” I say, and it feels like a joke between us, not an accusation.
He smirks, and that half-second brightness makes the kitchen look less cinderblock and more home. “You learn quick.”
We move. Shower. Clothes from my new stack. Sneakers. I catch my reflection in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door and barely recognize the woman in front of me. No mask of makeup. Soft T-shirt. Jeans that fit and don’t try too hard. Hair in a ponytail that doesn’t look ten thousand dollars expensive. My mouth curves without permission. The girl in the mirror curves back. She looks… like she could walk into a place and be absolutely okay with who she is.
I like this version of me. The one that isn’t trying to be someone I’m not.
We drive the SUV because he said to. Kellum takes the wheel without asking, and I don’t mind. The town unfurls, the same as yesterday, different because of me.
Bank came first. Kellum walks in with me, but hangs back by the brochure rack like he’s waiting for a turn at a very boring carnival ride. I sit with a woman in a cardigan and explain I need to open a new account.