Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
"Did any of the paperwork... has anyone complained?" I asked, blinking back the tears that were completely useless to the situation, and would likely only make Glen feel worse for telling me his concerns.
"No, no. I've been checking things. Just to make sure, y'know? I don't know. I guess I just had a gut feeling or something. I don't like being right, Holl," he added.
"No, no of course you don't," I agreed, reaching out to take his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before a movement caught my eye by the door, making me straighten and turn to find a familiar, massive back moving away from the door, heading back toward his truck.
Hm.
That was weird.
It was the girls night.
He always came and sat, and chatted, and ate greasy food on girls night. Every single week. For months now.
Maybe he'd gotten a call. Maybe there was a biker emergency. What might that entail? Bloodshed and bullets?
My stomach tightened at the idea. Even if I'd been working on coming to terms with his lifestyle since he'd told me about it.
Hopefully, it was just that the girls decided karaoke was boring, and they needed a ride somewhere else.
"Holly, are you listening to me?" Glen asked, making me jerk, then glance back at him, giving him a reassuring smile.
"Yes, of course. I'm glad you brought this to my attention. I am going to start paying closer attention. If I notice a real problem, I will find a way to express our concerns with his doctors. I know they can't, technically, discuss things like this with me. But I can express myself to them and hope they listen."
"I think that would be smart," Glen agreed, reaching for some cash. "Until then..."
"Yeah," I agreed, grimacing. "I don't know how I am going to tell him that he can't work right now."
"You'll figure it out, Holl. You've been doing good with that," he told me, offering me a smile, then heading out.
I bit back the words as they rose in the back of my throat, indignant and childish.
I don't want to be good at that.
I don't want to figure anything else out.
It was selfish of me, but I just wanted things to go right for once. I wanted my brother to be mending. I wanted his mental health to be decent. I wanted tables that didn't run me ragged. I wanted bills to give me an inch of room to breathe. I wanted to do something that fulfilled me. I wanted some free time.
I want I want I want.
It didn't matter what I wanted. Reality was reality, and I had to swallow back my little objections, and handle it as it rushed at me.
It would be okay.
It wasn't for forever.
It was just for now.
And now, apparently, I had a very injured brother with a possible addiction to the only thing that kept him functioning like he should be mentally.
I mean, how was I even supposed to approach such a touchy subject? How did you say to your severely injured loved one, "Hey, I think you have a pill problem" when you knew they needed the pills just to get through the day?
I went and fretted about that until the after-bar rush came in, swamping me, making it impossible to form any cognizant thoughts.
But when ones did manage to slip in, they weren't about Shep, about the pills, about his pain, about his loss of income.
Oh, no.
They were about Malcolm.
And his empty table that, eventually, I needed to seat. Once, twice, three times.
He still hadn't shown.
Curious, I checked my phone even though he rarely ever texted me. The man seemed like he wasn't a huge fan of technology as a whole. Old school, he liked his interactions to be in person. Which I found kind of endearing.
Except when his presence was constant, and suddenly absent.
Without a word.
The night stretched to morning and he still hadn't shown up. My stomach was in tight knots as I made my way outside with two bags of garbage.
It was silly.
The sun was coming up.
The daytime server was already inside the building.
The daytime cook was pulling into the lot.
There was nothing to worry about.
Except them complaining to our boss that I'd let the garbage pile up out front. But I could say something about being too swamped to walk away if I was confronted. It was mostly true.
Even if the fact was, I had been relying on Malcolm to do the trash for me.
I felt oddly upset about his absence as I carefully tried to haul one of the lighter bags over my head and into the dumpster.
I had no right to be upset.
Malcolm didn't work at the diner.
This was my job.
He'd been doing me a favor.
And favors didn't last forever.
Still, there was an odd crushing sensation in my chest as I finally got the first bag into the dumpster, and reached for the other.