Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Ben would probably make a good addition in both the kitchen and behind the bar.
I shivered as a wind blew past, and I threw the smoke down into the snow-covered pot next to the stoop.
I cleared my throat and folded my arms loosely over my chest. The only reason I stayed outside now was because I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want alone time with Ben.
We had an hour until the place closed, and then cleanup, which took another hour.
Maybe I could dig a little.
“You ready to go back in?”
Uh, no. But he was freezing. I supposed I could dig when we mopped the floors later, so I nodded. The cold had sobered me up, and we’d see if that was good or bad.
I was always eager for the last customers to get the fuck out.
Tonight, I was also eager for the staff to go home. I played it off with expert-level bullshit. Oh no, Tonya, you gotta catch that train. Sandy, go home right now because you’re on early tomorrow. Jamaal, you too. One by one, they trickled out. All the workstations were clean and the tables had been wiped down, so we just had the mopping left. Which meant we had to put the chairs upside down on the tables first.
My stomach snarled and tightened, reminding me we hadn’t eaten since…fuck, five thirty? Thereabouts?
“I’m hungry,” I said. “You wanna split some leftovers with me?”
He nodded and flipped one more barstool upside down on top of the bar. “I could eat.”
We headed out to the kitchen, and I went to the staff fridge where Petey and Julie always stored our leftovers. Container after container, labeled in Julie’s neat script. Cheesy bread, pizza soup, some wings… Fuck yeah, this was gonna be good. Our budget options for pop too. I was a Crush fan, and Ben took a Pepsi.
I brought everything to the nearest stovetop and pulled out two pans and a small pot.
So…I should start off easy, right? To feel him out?
“Can you tell me about your son?” I asked.
Okay, I didn’t fucking know which topics were safe or easy.
Ben pretended to be interested in opening his pop, but he didn’t look too bothered. “I’d hate to remind you of your ex, so I better answer.” His slight smirk put me at ease. Banter was good. “His name is Alvin.” The humor faded, and his expression turned wistful. “From the moment he was born, he’s been the light of my life.”
I kept him in my periphery as I started preparing the food.
“Unfortunately, it, uh… Things haven’t been easy,” he said. “By the time he was three, we knew he was different. If we pulled him away from something he was engrossed in, he screamed himself into a full-blown panic attack. He was very late to learn to speak, and his developments came in rapid bursts. Like… Okay, so when he started speaking. He went from absolutely nothing to…fuck, being able to carry on conversations with adults within the span of a year. And then nothing again for a couple years.”
“Damn.” I didn’t know what else to say.
He nodded minutely and set his drink on the counter. “After endless screenings and a string of doctors and psychiatrists who came and went, we learned he was autistic, and he, uh…” He made a gesture, as if he couldn’t find the right word. “Lindsey was the one who learned all those terms and shit I never understood, but in short, he has brain damage—he was born with it. At least, everyone agrees that’s the most likely event. It was a difficult birth, and they had to do an emergency C-section because he wasn’t getting oxygen.”
I had not started him off with something easy. Mother of Christ.
I felt stupid for distracting myself with the food, but we had to eat, and honestly, I didn’t know how to act. If I stopped moving around, I’d open my big fucking mouth and say something that made shit awkward. And I wanted to keep him talking.
“He’s happy today,” he said. “As long as we don’t mess with his structure, he’s a very happy young man. He just can’t manage on his own.”
Now I had to ask, because though I remembered the talk about the divorce, how it was several years ago, and then that Lindsey had died… Either way, I had this vision in my head that the kid was young.
“How old is he?”
“Eighteen.”
Shit.
Ben retrieved his wallet and smiled a little to himself. “It probably makes me the shittiest dad on the planet, but a big part of me is relieved his developing slowed down as a young teenager. In my eyes, it’s easier for him to go through life if he gets to keep being carefree and…you know, a kid. I don’t know.” He dug out a tattered photo from one of the pockets. “He never reached that mental age where self-awareness makes you think there’s something wrong. He knows he’s different, and he hates his anxiety, but some of the young people I’ve met over the years—” He shook his head. “Too many teenagers struggle with depression and loneliness because of their disorders and the alienation that often comes with them.”