Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
One glass becomes two.
Two becomes three.
Somewhere around the fourth glass, I decide that if I’m going to be branded tomorrow night, if I’m going to carry Roman Bishop’s mark on my hip for the rest of my life, then I might as well make one meal that’s completely mine.
One thing in this house that I chose. That I created.
I start pulling ingredients from the kitchen cabinets. I’ll need to figure out who stocked the house so I can thank them. Everything is here. Flour, eggs, butter, vegetables, chicken in the freezer. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from years of helping my father with church dinners, from the baking I used to do when life was simple, and the worst thing I had to worry about was whether my cookies would turn out right.
The whiskey makes everything feel distant. Soft around the edges. Less real.
I’m rolling out dough for biscuits when I realize I’m crying. Not sobbing. Just tears sliding down my cheeks while my hands keep working, keep kneading, keep creating something out of nothing.
Tomorrow night, Roman will destroy something in me.
But tonight, I’m going to make biscuits.
Tonight, I’m going to cook a meal in this kitchen that’s supposed to be mine.
Tonight, I’m going to drink enough whiskey to stop feeling the weight of what’s coming.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to survive what tomorrow brings.
Elena’s words echo in my head: “Find something to focus on. A memory. A prayer. Something that belongs to you and only you.”
I pour another glass of whiskey and keep cooking. Letting the anger simmer under the surface just like the pots on the stove.
Calder
All I can think about when I get home Sunday night is food and falling face-first into my pillow. That is until I enter the house.
The scent of roasted chicken and herbs catches me first, warm and domestic, the kind of smell that belongs in someone else’s life.
Closing the front door, I creep into the kitchen and breathe a sigh of relief when I find Saint at the counter. Relief turns into worry when I spot the glass in her hand, and the vacant way she stares into the void. What the hell happened after I left?
She’s changed her clothing since I saw her earlier this afternoon. Now she’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that make her look more like a domesticated housewife. I’m not sure why, but that causes an uncomfortable ache in my chest. I don’t want her to change, to lose what makes her Saint. Strands of honey-blond have escaped the bun she has in her hair and hang loosely, framing her face in messy waves.
Beautiful.
A bottle of Maker’s Mark sits on the counter beside her. Shit.
How long has she been sitting here drinking? I notice her small bare feet are pressed against the rungs of the stool, and I smile at the sight of them.
Saint doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even acknowledge my presence when I enter the kitchen. If I didn’t already have a gut feeling that something is wrong, this would be a glaring sign.
“Saint?” I say her name softly.
“Your mother stopped by earlier.” Her tone is tight, strained at the edges. “Gave me a nice little heads-up to what’s going to happen next.”
Fuck. Dread coils in my gut. I should’ve known my mother would come to visit.
“What did she tell you?”
Saint lifts her head, but only so she can take a drink, not to look at me. The whiskey slips past her lips slowly, and I’m mesmerized by the motion. “Everything.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “Well, not everything, but enough.”
“Okay, explain.”
“Explain? Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who needs to explain. You are.”
I sigh and skim my hands over my head. “I was going to tell you, explain the process before we got there.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe that.”
“What do you want me to say?” I glance around the kitchen and pause. Mostly just for something to change the topic.
She cooked. There’s chicken on the stove, golden and cooked perfectly. Biscuits cooling on a rack. Green beans in a pan. All of it untouched, growing colder by the second while she drinks herself numb at the counter.
“You didn’t have to cook.”
“Probably not, but I had to do something.” Her grip on the glass tightens. “I needed something to prove that I still have some type of control over the things that happen in my life. Even if that control is whether the chicken’s dry or moist.” The way her voice cracks, with hollow exhaustion. It’s a sound I’ve never heard before, and I fucking hate it.
“My mother shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” she croaks, finally looking at me. Her eyes are rimmed red, but there aren’t any tears. Just this terrible emptiness reflecting at me, and somehow that’s worse than seeing her cry. “How dare you stand here with that sad look in your eyes and act like… like you give a crap about how I feel? I have no say in anything, not even what happens to my body apparently.”