Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I shake my head. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful—for everyone. What happened to your parents?”
“My mom died—thrown from the car. My dad lingered on life support for several days until my uncle pulled the plug.” His mouth twists. “I was ten when it happened, old enough to know everyone in the whole town despised them. They’d both been in and out of jail for one thing or another.” A resigned look settles on his face. “My dad’s brother and his wife raised me.”
“Were they good to you?”
He reaches back, pulls out his wallet, and shows me a picture. “I was eleven here, I think, and had only been with them for a year. The girls were five, two, and one. They’re a mess.” His lips curve up as if he’s thinking of them in particular, and I suck in a breath, afraid he’ll turn that megawatt grin on me.
I stare down at the image he shows me.
It’s a family portrait with him as a skinny boy, tall for his age even then. He’s wearing a baggy blue dress shirt and high-water jeans that show the edge of white socks. Worn out sneakers are on his feet, but it’s his face that gets to me. No smile.
His uncle must be the man with his arms around a petite lady holding two babies in her lap while an older child hugs her leg. The little girls are sweet, their faces round and adorable—but Blaze stands apart from them, just a little. His eyes…they’re squinted with a faraway look, his face flat. His hands are clenched tight against his legs, as if he’s holding himself as still as possible.
I look up at him, my eyes skating over the chiseled face that looks like nothing could ever penetrate the surface. I could say, You look lonely, and if I’d been there, I’d have been your friend, but I don’t. He’s a proud person; I can tell by the hard, set planes of his face right now.
He doesn’t meet my gaze, just stares at the photo. “I know what you’re thinking when you look at it, that I didn’t fit in, and I didn’t, but my aunt and uncle weren’t unkind. They just didn’t expect me to be added to their new family, you know? Plus, they didn’t have much, and there I was…taking up space and eating their food.”
“I see.” He saw himself as a burden.
“The church we attended did one of those free portrait things for our directory. That’s why the background is so crappy. Don’t know why I keep it, but I can’t seem to throw it away. I miss the girls the most.”
I stare at it and chew on my bottom lip, searching for something to say. I recall all the pictures of me and my brothers around the house. There’s even a high school graduation picture of me in our guest bathroom across from the toilet, and no matter how many times I’ve begged Ma and Pop to take it down, insisting no one wants to see me while they poop, they refuse to take down my “shit picture”.
He tucks the photograph back in his wallet.
“Blaze, I—”
He grimaces. “Nah, don’t tell me you’re sorry about how I grew up. If anything, it’s given me my drive. Someday I’ll prove to them and everyone in Alma that I’m not just the product of two losers. I’m going to get out of Mississippi and be someone.”
“I believe you.” Unexpected emotion flies at me, clogging up my throat as I think about him never having a family like I did.
He gives me a look, his gaze drifting over my face for what seems like several seconds. “Thank you for those words.”
“I’ve always known you have the guts to shoot for the stars. It’s plain as day when you take the football field.”
“Didn’t know you came to that many games.”
I shrug. “You know Margo. She wants us there to cheer on the team, rah-rah-ree. I did my duty.”
“Yeah, of course.” A rare, vulnerable expression crosses his face, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
“‘All great and precious things are lonely,’” I murmur, the words slipping out. “John Steinbeck.”
His face stills, and he gives me a long, lingering look, the air between us thicker, intimate.
“Is that…is that a compliment from the girl who hates me? Are you saying I’m precious?”
Uh…
“You do hate me, right?” His eyes hold mine, those baby blues that make me weak, and even though I don’t want to feel desire for him anymore, it rears its head, my senses lighting up at his smell, at our close proximity—
I back away from him, my feet knowing instinctively that it’s time to go.
“Charisma?”
“I—I have to go.”
“Don’t. We’re talking.”
“I have to. Got to get those rice cakes before someone else does.”