Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
She nodded and leaned her head against my chest—as if we’d done the same move every single day—instead of for the first time. “I’m okay. This man was just telling me the benefits of eating at the Taco Shop.”
I chuckled. “We’ve just come from there, Brandon. But thank you for singing their praises. Have a good day, man.”
Brandon looked like he’d rather punch me in the throat than follow any orders—even if they were nice ones.
The moment he made the decision to be smart and walked away, Cora breathed a sigh of relief.
“That man—kid—whatever he is…he’s too big and scary to be cornering women,” Cora said softly.
I agreed, which I shared with her.
“He tried to do the same thing to my Frankie a few months back, and Frankie whacked him before I fired him,” I explained, recalling the time fondly. But not because of Brandon’s obvious rudeness, but at the fact that my daughter had shown me she could protect herself.
“My dad taught me to do the same thing,” Cora admitted. “There was this one time in high school that a senior tried to pull the same stuff on me. When I told him no, he didn’t want to take that for an answer, so I had to show him I really meant it.”
I started to laugh based on the look that crossed over her face.
“That look,” I wheezed. “Your eyes narrowed, and your hands clenched. Please tell me you didn’t squeeze his balls like tiny little grapes.”
She opened her mouth to deny it but stopped herself.
“Well…” she hesitated. “I didn’t squeeze them—it was more like I tried to yank them off his body.”
I groaned.
“Get whatever you were gonna get,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “Then we can go get your incubators.”
“Incubators?” she hesitated. “Why do I need more than one?”
I gave me a raised brow. “Mostly because you have eighteen eggs. My guess, they’ll have an incubator that’ll fit twelve. Hell, you may even need three.”
She groaned. “This is turning out to be an expensive endeavor. Geez, but I only wanted chickens!”
“You should’ve listened to your father.”
She flipped me off, then went to grab two Snickers bars.
Chapter 8
Daily reminder to stay hydrated and not give a fuck what other people think.
-Cora’s to do list
Cora
I laid in bed that night, tossing and turning, wondering what was wrong with me.
I could hear the incubators running in my bathroom where Coke and I had set them up, but that wasn’t what was keeping me awake.
It was the sound of the occasional dropped tool and the low thrum of music.
I knew he was trying to stay quiet, really, I did, but at this point, it wasn’t the noise he was making. It was him.
Knowing he was out there was killing me. I wanted to be out there, too.
We’d spent a day together, but I knew I would remember the day for the rest of my life.
Starting from the moment he’d called me this morning, I’d been happy.
And I couldn’t remember the last time that’d happened in quite a while.
When I was younger, I was diagnosed with cyclothymic disorder. It is a rarer yet milder form of bipolar disorder. The symptoms are similar but more treatable through therapy.
I often got depressed for no good reason, and other times I was so freakin’ happy that I felt on top of the world. I had horrible impulse control, and not a day went by that I didn’t think about harming myself in some way.
I’d fought my instincts a lot as a kid, and after I shared with my mother and father that sometimes I hated myself, they decided to get me checked out.
Which was when I was diagnosed with a mild mental disorder.
Honestly, it made sense.
My family never knew why I didn’t want to be around other kids my age. And they never could figure out why I was such a depressed child. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, made me happy. That was until the day that my therapist gave me pencils and paper and told me to draw her a picture.
From that day forward, I’d learned how to express myself through my drawings. I’d found an outlet for my depressive symptoms.
I’d also found my calling in life.
From that point, my family knew exactly how I was feeling based on my drawings.
Which was why I sometimes drew Janie comics to let her know that she hurt my feelings—because it was easier to do that rather than actually talking to her.
Handing it to her and walking away was much more satisfying than telling her I didn’t want to be included in whatever games they were playing.
Janie had never been cruel. Neither had Kayla. Honestly, they’d just been kids, and I think that they were hurt that I wouldn’t really have anything to do with them.
Them trying to include me in their friendship had bothered me because I really was a loner. I liked to be left alone. And though we did consider each other friends, I was never as close with them as they were with each other.