Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Broken bones took four to six weeks. What about a broken heart—and broken pride?
“We’ll get it figured out. We won’t give up.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘we’?” I stared at her, seeing the way her brown hair fell down her shoulders in wavy curls that looked soft. She was a petite woman, probably a foot shorter than me if she didn’t wear those heels all the time. And her face was perfectly symmetrical, her fair skin unblemished, making her eyes stand out further. She had full lips, a slender shape to her face, and eyes that could brighten up the darkest night. It was easy to stare at her, and I wondered if that was why I looked at her so often, held my silence without saying a word.
A soft smile entered her lips. “Because we’re in this together.”
“I don’t think your salary covers this—”
“I care about my clients, Deacon. I will do anything and everything for them.”
“But I’ve done nothing for you.” I treated her like I did everyone else, as if she was invisible.
“And you don’t need to. That’s not the kind of person I am. I have lots of clients who don’t trust me when they meet me, who don’t think I can be an asset to them, but then I become an essential part of their lives. That’s not because of the paycheck. It’s because I genuinely like to help people—like you do.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I continued to stare at her, study her like my next experimental obsession.
She held my gaze, reflecting the same look back at me, as if she understood what I was thinking when I didn’t say anything.
“I always knew I didn’t want kids.”
She moved her hands to the table, her fingers interlocked as she sat with straight posture, like a therapist who was being paid to listen to every word I spoke.
“I’m not good with people. I don’t have the time to raise a kid. Not interested in it. So, when Valerie told me she was pregnant, I said I wanted an abortion.” I broke eye contact because I was sick to my stomach, saying that out loud. I’d never told anyone that before, the single thing I was most ashamed of, the thing that made it hard to look at my son sometimes. “She didn’t…obviously. But I didn’t want him. I didn’t want to be a father. Didn’t want to deal with all that shit. But then he was born…and everything changed. I don’t know how to talk to people. I don’t know how to care about things besides my work. I’ve never had a strong emotional connection with anyone, not even my family. But he…makes me feel so much. He makes me feel love, an emotion I didn’t think I could feel.”
Her eyes started to water.
“He’s the only person I’ll ever love… And it kills me that I can’t even talk to him.” Tears spilled from my eyes and down my cheeks, and this time, they weren’t from anger. They were from the hole inside my heart.
Her hand moved to mine, her warm fingers resting on my knuckles.
I didn’t pull away from the touch. There a connection there, a vulnerability from my own emotions. I didn’t like to touch people unless it was sexual, but I let our touch linger for a few seconds before I pulled away.
She didn’t seem offended when I became withdrawn. “We’ll figure it out, Deacon. I promise.” Her eyes were watery, like she could mirror every single emotion I felt, feel the same distress just from watching another person feel it.
There was nothing else in this world that could break me down like this, could make me shed a tear. At my own father’s funeral, I didn’t cry. It wasn’t because I wasn’t devastated. I just didn’t feel that urge to react that way. But I loved my son in a way only another parent could understand…
And that love killed me.
Eight
Deacon
I stood in the center of my living room, my hands hanging at my sides as Mary sat up on her knees, pinching the fabric with pins and taking the measurements she needed to make this suit fit me like all my others.
Cleo sat on the couch, typing on her phone as if she was taking care of emails as she waited.
I stared at her, seeing the way she crossed her ankles and kept her knees tightly together. She was in a pencil skirt again, and that seemed to be her signature attire. It was pink with a white blouse tucked into the waistband. Today, her hair was pulled back, out of her face. A gold bracelet was on her wrist.
I’d never see her look anything less than perfect.
It didn’t matter if it was first thing in the morning on my way to work or late at night. She still had a fresh look, her makeup flawless as if she perfected it several times throughout the day. Her clothes were always neatly pressed, and without checking the labels, it seemed like she wore designer clothing.