Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Table three is almost ready to close out,” she told Charlie. “I told them to bring their check up to you.” She looked at her watch. “Ava’s not here yet. You want me to wait? Table five ordered appetizers and hasn’t put in their dinner order yet.”
“I got it. You two kids take off.”
“You sure?”
Charlie thumbed toward the door. “Go on. Get outta here. I don’t want people to see your professor friend here and think the place is changing over to yuppies.”
I laughed. “’Night, Charlie.”
Rachel’s sister lived in Queens, and traffic was still heavy from the evening commute home. She was quieter than usual as we inched our way up the parkway.
“Busy at work today?”
“No. It was actually kind of slow.”
More quiet as she stared off out the window.
“Something bothering you?”
She shifted in her seat. “There’s something I should tell you about my sister.”
“Alright.”
“She’s a drug addict. Well, she’s in recovery. But I suppose that still makes her a drug addict, because once an addict, always an addict. It’s the same thing as an alcoholic, right? You still call yourself an alcoholic even if you haven’t had a drink for five years. Is there actually a time when you stop referring to yourself that way? Like maybe those chips they give out—one might signify that you’re sober? Do all of those chips mean different things? I thought they were timeline accomplishments—like one for a month, and another for a year? But maybe—”
She hadn’t taken a breath yet. Run-on sentences were one of her tells when she was nervous. I interrupted, “Rachel?”
“What?”
“You’re babbling. I don’t care if your sister is an addict. I wouldn’t even care if you’re sister wasn’t in recovery. I’m not going to judge her. I’m coming to dinner because you wanted me to come. Do you still want me to join you?”
“Yes.”
I reached over and took her hand, bringing it to cover the gear shifter beneath my own. “Okay then.”
From my peripheral vision, I saw her shoulders relax a bit. She looked out the window, seeming lost in thought, and then turned to me.
“She lost custody of her son because of her addiction.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She only gets to see him twice a week—supervised visitation. Her ex-husband left her a few years ago and took her son with him.”
“Her son? It’s not her ex-husband’s child.”
“No. It’s a long story. But she had Adam when she was young.”
I squeezed her hand beneath mine. “Shit happens, Rach. Addiction is tough.” God knows I knew that first hand after Liam.
“I know. I just wanted to tell you that.”
“Thank you for sharing with me.”
Even though I meant it when I said I had no judgment of her sister—I had definitely visualized her as something different. I’d expected an addict to open the door for us when we arrived—thin and unkempt, in a small apartment, maybe bad teeth. But the woman who greeted us was nothing like that. She was an older version of Rachel. Healthy and smiling, she welcomed me into her home with a hug.
“It’s so nice to meet you. My sister’s told me absolutely nothing about you.”
Rachel laughed. “Ignore her. She tends to be a wiseass.”
“So you two have a lot in common then, along with your looks.”
Riley shut the door behind us, grinning from ear to ear. “I like him already.”
The apartment’s entrance led into the kitchen, so we stood around talking for a while as Riley checked on the dinner she had in the oven. It had been hot as hell in class today, so I’d guzzled a few extra bottles of water while lecturing and needed to relieve myself.
“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”
Riley was stirring a pot at the stove and pointed down the hall. “Sure. Through the living room, down the hall, first door on the left. I basically live in a railroad car, so you can’t miss it.”
I noticed a wall full of frames, similar to what Rachel had in her apartment, but didn’t stop to look before going to the bathroom. On the way back, I noticed most of the pictures were of the same little blond boy at various stages of growing up. Assuming it was Riley’s son, Adam, I didn’t want to stop and call attention to it, in case speaking about him was difficult.
I’d almost made it past the picture-lined hall when a small photo caught my eye. It was of two little girls standing in the grass—the younger girl was probably three or four, and the older was maybe eight or nine, but it was definitely Rachel and her sister.
I stopped and zoomed in on the younger girl. The photo was old and grainy, but something about it set off an alarm inside of me. My posture straightened as I stared.
“She always insisted on making her own ponytail. It was always crooked, but she was adamant that she had to do it herself.” Riley joined me at the wall of photos and handed me a glass. “It’s iced tea.”