Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
“He plays the blues,” Mr. Rhodes threw in. “But he doesn’t like to play in front of other people.”
“Dad,” the kid scoffed, his cheeks going straight to red.
I tried to give him an encouraging smile. “It’s hard to play in front of other people, thinking of how they’re judging you. But the best thing to do is not care what they think or if you mess up. Everybody messes up. Every time. No one is ever flawless, and most people are tone deaf and can’t hear a flat note if you poked them with it.”
The kid shrugged, obviously still embarrassed his dad had ratted him out, but I thought it was cute.
Mr. Rhodes wouldn’t have said anything if it didn’t please him to a point.
“Exactly, Am. Who gives a shit what other people think?” Mr. Rhodes egged him on, surprising me again.
“You’re always correcting me every time you come hear us,” he muttered, face still flamed.
I bit back a smile. “I know a lot of musicians, and honestly, most of them—not all of them, but most of them—like it when people are honest and correct them. They’d rather know they’re doing something wrong, so that they can make a correction and not keep making the same mistake over and over again. That’s how everyone gets better, but I know it sucks. That’s why I’m here bothering your dad. Because I’m tired of being wrong at work.”
Amos didn’t make eye contact, but he did shrug.
I caught Mr. Rhodes’s gaze and lifted my eyebrows as I smiled at him. His stoic expression didn’t change at all, but I was pretty sure his eyes widened just a little, tiny bit.
Amos, either not wanting to be the center of conversation anymore or in a talkative mood, placed his hand on the back of his dad’s chair and ran his fingernails along the top of it, focused on that as he asked, “Are you . . . doing another hike?”
“I think I’m going to do this river trail next.”
The boy’s gaze flicked up. “Where at?”
“The Piedra River.” It was arguably the most popular one in the area. I tapped the tips of my fingers against the vase. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you again for tonight, Mr. Rhodes. Keep feeling better, Amos. Have a good night.” I gave them one more wave and headed out, neither one of them following to lock up behind me.
It was only eight, and I wasn’t really tired yet, but I took a shower, flipped off the lights, and climbed into bed with a drink, thinking about the damn trail Mr. Rhodes brought up earlier.
The one my mom disappeared on.
The one that killed her.
At least we were pretty sure that was where she had gone. One of the witnesses that the police were able to find had claimed that they’d passed her on the trail when they’d been heading out and she’d been going up. They had said that she’d looked fine, that she’d smiled and asked how they were doing.
They were the last people to ever see her.
This tiny, bitter ache stretched across my heart, and I had to release a deep, deep breath.
She hadn’t left me, I reminded myself for about the millionth time over the last twenty years. I had never cared what anyone had tried to say or hint at. She hadn’t left me on purpose.
After a moment, I pulled up my tablet and started a movie I’d downloaded the day before, and I watched it distractedly, snuggling under the single sheet I slept under. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I woke up with the tablet on my chest and with this intense urge to pee.
Usually, I tried to stop drinking fluids a couple hours before bed so that I wouldn’t have to wake up; I had this fear of peeing myself even though that hadn’t happened in like thirty years. But I’d sucked down a strawberry soda while I’d watched my movie.
Now, waking up in the pitch-black studio apartment, I groaned at the pressure on my bladder and rolled up to sitting.
It took me a second to reach around and find my phone plugged in under my pillow. I yawned as I took it off and tapped at the screen as I stood up, turning on the flashlight feature to get into the bathroom. I stumbled in on another yawn, not turning on the light so that I wouldn’t wake myself up, and used it, peeing what felt like a gallon out, then washing my hands.
I was yawning all the way back, blinking at the faint light of the microwave’s clock and adjusting to the moonlight that came in through the windows that were constantly cracked.
And that was when I felt the whoosh over my head.