Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
I inhale deeply, the delicious smells stirring stomach pangs. Prison meals are all about efficiency and ease, the menu a four-week rotation rubber-stamped by some dietician as providing the necessary food groups, should anyone on the outside care to write up a report on the conditions inside. It’s horrendous. Powdered milk, scrambled eggs that have been boiled in a bag, stews and soups made off-site and frozen until consumption. Everything tastes off, the textures unappetizing.
It’s been a long time since I ate for any other reason than necessity. And the worst part about all this? I’ll be sick later because I can’t digest anything this rich.
“Here.” My cousin Jameson holds out a can of beer. “It’s one of my own brew.”
I wave it off.
“Come on, you’re celebrating!” he pushes.
“I’m meeting my parole officer on Monday, and they’ll make me do a piss test.”
“That’s two days away, man.” He laughs, and I don’t like the mocking sound of it. “One beer’s not gonna show up on any test.”
“You offering to take my place in prison if it does? Because the rules are pretty fucking clear.”
“Uh …” He blinks several times.
I feel eyes on me. Maybe that came out a bit too sharp.
“Jameson wouldn’t last one night in prison,” Jack declares while yanking the can from his younger brother’s grasp and cracking the tab. “He’d be the one they all bet on to start crying at lights-out.”
“You’d be bawling before you got off the bus,” Jameson counters.
“Yeah, probably.” They both laugh, and the sound helps ease the momentary tension I didn’t mean to create.
The last time I saw these two, they were ten and twelve—the same age as Thomas and the twins. Now they’re burly men with sculpted beards. I know from Mom’s letters that both brothers moved back home to their parents. Jack’s divorced and has a four-year-old daughter named Olivia. He’s got his excavator’s certification and works for a forestry company south of here.
Jameson’s the studious one. He got his degree at Lakehead in Thunder Bay and then moved to Sudbury to work as an engineer in a nickel mine before deciding he’d rather be a brewmaster. So, he built a barn and started growing hops on his parents’ land. He seems the most easy-going by far. His T-shirt says “Single and ready to mingle”—a weird thing to wear to a family function, in my opinion.
“Here.” Sarah appears from behind to hold out a tall, yellow can. “It’s nonalcoholic.”
A peace offering, I guess. One I shouldn’t refuse.
“It’s good. Try it. We can suffer together.” After a moment’s hesitation, she clanks her can against mine and then sucks back a mouthful.
Does this feel as awkward for her as it does me?
“I heard congrats are in order.” Her bulky white sweater hides all hints of the pregnancy.
“Honestly? I’m too old for chasing babies, let alone another set of twins. Brooks and Carson nearly killed me. I’m so busy with the market and all the social media for the ranch, plus we’re doing online ordering now.” She sighs. “I wasn’t planning on having more. It just kind of happened.”
“You know, there’s this thing called birth control,” Jameson jokes.
Aunt Jill sweeps in at that moment, cuffing her son upside the head on her way past to my mother’s side. “What can I help with, Annie?”
The brothers laugh at the perfectly timed event, and I find myself smiling too.
But Sarah’s attention is on me, her green eyes lingering on the hooked scar. “You look good, baby bro.”
I feel those two words somewhere deep in my chest. Jay used to call me that.
“Baby,” Jameson blurts. “Cuz, you’re a fucking beast. Seriously, did you do anything else besides work out for the last twenty years?”
“Get him to give you pointers.” Jack smacks Jameson’s gut, earning a retaliatory swing from his brother.
“Boys!” Aunt Jill scolds, shaking her head at them as if they’re misbehaving children. “There are forty-five people packed into this house, and we are trying to feed the whole lot. In fact, here.” She thrusts bowls filled with salads into their hands. “Rhonda’s setting up the dining room table. Help her.”
With grins, the grown men saunter out.
“So, how do you like the apartment?” Sarah asks after a moment of uneasy silence.
“It’s good.” In fact, I’m dying to get back to it.
“Yeah?” She watches my expression as if searching for a lie. “Jon and I lived there for a few years. We wished we’d put in a separate bedroom—”
“It’s fine.” The last time I walked up those creaky steps, the space was nothing more than a drafty attic of exposed beams, cluttered with boxes in storage. But it’s been winterized into a rustic studio apartment with a little kitchen on one side and a seating area with a woodstove on the other, and a brand-new bathroom.
“The shower stall is a bit small, especially for someone your size.”