Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“You’re restless, I can feel it.”
I turned to my aunt as she walked out of the kitchen and onto the porch. “I’m always restless lately.”
“True. But you can usually run some of it off.” She handed me a mug of coffee that I accepted with a thank-you. “Sit.” Aunt Richelle pointed to the porch swing behind me.
I did as she asked, and she sat down beside me, her gaze on the water.
“I love the rain.” She sighed happily. “When we were kids, your mom and I used to sneak out to our tree house anytime it rained. Dad built it and it had a tin roof. We loved the sound of the rain dancing across the top.”
Sliding my arm along her shoulder, I pulled her into my side. Aunt Richelle relaxed against me, and I kissed her temple and confessed, “I miss her too.”
“I know,” she whispered, her eyes still on the water. “She would have been so proud of you.”
That I knew. It was nice to hear it, anyway.
A while passed as we quietly watched the rain together. Until my aunt pulled away from me, searched my face, and abruptly asked, “What are you doing here, Chris?”
“I needed my family,” I answered honestly, my tone a little gruff.
Aunt Richelle caressed my cheek, tenderness in her expression. “Sweetheart, you will always have that in me. And you can stay as long as you need. But—and you know I try to give you time to work these things out for yourself—I’m worried about you. You seem lost.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I don’t know what my next move is. I do know if I don’t make it soon, doors that are currently temporarily closed may never open again.”
“NASA?”
I nodded. “They don’t want astronauts who aren’t fully committed to the job.”
Contemplating this, Aunt Richelle settled against the swing again and studied the landscape stretched out before us. “Well . . . I think the place to start is the obvious one. What do you enjoy? What do you still want to accomplish in life? And before you answer, take your father out of the equation.”
“He’s very much in the equation.”
“Right now, he’s not even here.” Her expression was uncharacteristically stern. “He’s not a part of this discussion, so put him from your mind and just think about what you want.”
Considering it, focusing on my currently itchy feet, I blurted out, “Travel.”
“Travel?”
“I know I traveled with the air force, but it’s not the same. I always wanted to backpack but—”
“Your father said it was for bums,” Richelle interrupted. “I remember, I was there, and it stung. I backpacked, which he knew.” She muttered something that sounded a lot like “asshole” under her breath.
I grinned. “Yeah, he’s good at that. But I remember you told Miguel and me stories about your travels when we were kids, and even then, I wanted to follow in your footsteps. You made it sound like something everyone needed to do.”
“I think it is. I wish everyone had the money to, but I got lucky with my art. I know Mom and Dad worried sick about me the entire year I was gone, but it changed who I was. For the better.”
“But you were young. It’s kind of expected that that’s the time you do it.”
“Who cares? When you’re old and unable to do anything more rigorous than lift your butt off a seat to fart, you’ll wish you had done whatever the hell you wanted. Not what’s expected.”
I chuckled. “You have such a pretty way of putting things, Aunt Richelle.”
She snorted. “But you know I’m right.”
I did know she was right. Longing filled me. “When I was up there on the station”—I pointed upward—“I spent so many hours looking down on the world, in awe of it . . . and I realized being up there was one of the few times in my life I had seen it at its best. I’d traveled, but to places torn apart by war and pain.” I swallowed hard against the memories, the images that flickered across my vision, which I knew would haunt me for the rest of my life. “I saw the worst in humanity, and, thankfully, there were moments when I saw the best. But for once I just want to experience all of it without constantly watching my back for the enemy.”
My aunt grabbed hold of my hand, drawing my gaze to her. Her expression fierce. “Then go traveling. Go backpacking.”
I gave her hand a squeeze but released it as I stood, aggravation tightening my shoulders. “It isn’t a productive use of my time.”
“That’s your father talking.”
Scowling, I shook my head. “Not just my father. I have skills that should be put toward something useful, something that aids toward progress, that helps people.”
Aunt Richelle mirrored my scowl. “You’ve done that. And you will do it again. But you’re allowed to take a break. Sometimes we just need to refill the well, you know.”