Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Surprisingly, he kept his word. Or should I say, unfortunately. This was for the best. Being on good terms—him helping me out and me being thankful. I really do owe him for all he’s done. And after last night, I feel like we may finally be past our silly childhood bullshit.
I make my way to the extra bathroom to get ready and flip on the light, in major need of a good tooth scrubbing. The pain killers are giving me the worst kind of cotton mouth and—“What the hell?” I stare into the mirror, look down at my shirt, then back in the mirror. “That bastard,” I hiss at the gaudy team logo staring back at me.
He put me in his goddamn team T-shirt! Seeing the name of my team’s rival splattered across my chest makes me feel dirty. I pull at the shirt and try to lift it over my head, but I can’t work my fingers around the material. “Get this off me,” I groan, making another attempt. That little weasel. I thought he was doing a nice thing, helping me out. He had an ulterior motive the whole time. “Oh, he's so dead.”
I bet he laughed the entire time he was slipping it over my head. And I said thank you. “Ah! So. Dead!” I finally get it off but snag one of my bandages. “Ow, ow, ow.” Shit, that hurt. I toss the shirt in the trash where it belongs. “Oh, he’s going to pay for that.”
My anger builds as I make a half-assed attempt at brushing my teeth. Holding the toothbrush is almost impossible. Washing out my mouth is even more so. When I finish, I stomp back to my room before the open door down the hall catches my attention. I take a few seconds, debating whether to mind my own business or snoop. Three seconds pass, and I go back down the hall and knock to see if he’s in there.
“Ben?”
When he doesn’t answer, I head in. The first thing I do is scan his room. The bed looks the same. Big. Comfortable. Inviting. “Don’t do it,” I scold myself, remembering how it felt to be sprawled on it. His pillows smell like him. The silky sheets were smooth between my fingers as I dug into them. Dismissing the bed, I move on, running my claws over the top of his dresser. I open the first drawer and peek inside. Boxers. Socks. Boring. I close it and open the second drawer. A row of identical T-shirts, all sporting a fire department logo. “Why couldn’t he put me in one of these?” I decide he won’t know if one is missing and snatch it off the top.
Closing that drawer, I move to the nightstand on the right side of the bed. On top is a framed photo of a man in a firefighter suit and a little boy. His father. Ben looks about ten years old. His smile radiates from ear to ear. His dad looks proud. Even though I never met him, I bet he was a great man just looking at this photo. The photo next to it is Ben in his football gear. I don’t recognize the colors, so it must have been from college. I’m curious why he has it showcased. As a reminder? It breaks my heart to know he sacrificed his future to come home. He could have been someone amazing on the field. He still succeeded, just in a different way.
My curiosity has me opening his nightstand drawer, ready to find porn or something guy related. My eyes widen in surprise. Reaching down, I pick up a Bible, open it to the first page, and read the inscription.
Ben,
May God guide you when you struggle to guide yourself.
Dad
I flip through page after page of highlighted passages. A small card slips from the book, and I bend to pick it up. My heart squeezes when I turn it over and see his father’s face. His memorial card. Guilts punches me in the gut. I slide the card back into the Bible and place it in his drawer. I shouldn’t have snooped through his things. Seeing that message. . . it was private and not meant for me.
Abandoning the search for his sports gear, I close the drawer and head back to my room. My anger subsides as guilt takes the reins. Not enough to give back his firefighter shirt, though. I bring it to my nose and inhale his scent, my eyes catching on a black dress draped over the chair in the corner. There’s a note on top. Walking over, I drop the shirt and fumble with the note until I get it open.
Thought this might be the easiest to get on by yourself. Unless, of course, you choose to stay in the T-shirt all day.