Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
There are still times I’ll steal a book or two to bring home to Colt, poems Dad made me appreciate. I wasn’t born with a literary bone in my body, but my old man made me grow a few.
Winnie’s mouth drops open when we head inside.
“Holy—oh, wow. You weren’t kidding when you said library.” She breathes, taking a second to drink it in. “I haven’t felt this book drunk since I’d walk through the Library of Congress.”
“Book drunk, huh?”
She grins sheepishly.
I try to see it from her perspective.
When I was a kid, the bookshelves were all ancient mahogany. Then Dad had them painted this pine-green color and the whole room has felt lighter ever since. A door leads out onto the lawn, and it’s open a crack, leaving the white curtains fluttering in the breeze.
The shelves, the paint, the colors have changed over generations. Yet there were always heaps of books, giving it so much soul.
Smiling, Winnie pulls her hand from mine and walks over to the photos on the wall. They’re in prime position, display pieces plastered on the wall so everyone who sits on the cozy plush seats will notice them.
“Your family?” she asks, reaching out like she wants to touch the frame, then drawing her hand back.
“Yeah. It’s a family history of sorts, starting with my great-grandparents.”
“Holy shit, Archer,” she whispers.
I shrug. “Honestly, no big deal. Just a bunch of dead people on a wall.”
“But you guys still put them there. Ghosts on your wall with their own lives, their stories.”
“Is that so shocking?”
“No, my parents are just weird, I guess. They never wanted to hang a single photo that wasn’t perfectly staged. Where I grew up, it was art. My father changed our wall art every few years, updating to whatever seems more popular.”
“To buy votes by acting like he shares the people’s taste,” I growl.
“…pretty much, yeah. Gross, right?”
It is.
I’m also sorry as hell a girl this sweet grew up living with an image-obsessed weasel.
“These are really beautiful, though,” she says. “You can totally feel the history here.”
I squint at the pictures again. Most are black-and-white. Some of the more recent additions show my parents in color, along with me and my brothers as kids. In the last photo, my father stands there next to the small plane he used to fly, smiling proudly.
The passion took his life but I doubt he regretted a damn thing.
We don’t keep secrets very well in this family, I suppose. It’s all hanging out in the open.
Winnie gasps. “Is that… President Truman?”
I knew that was coming.
When you grow up in Kansas City, you recognize Give ’Em Hell Harry like the back of your hand.
“He was a big deal in this town back in the day,” I say. “My great-grandparents knew him before he was president. They had a hand in getting him to the Senate before he climbed his way up the chain.”
“Wow.” Winnie clamps her mouth shut, like she wanted to say something else but doesn’t know how. She steps back, finger combing her mass of auburn curls, twining the hair tightly.
I grab her wrist and pull it away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Wide eyes flick to mine and away again. “We should look around the rest of the house, though. And say hi to your mom.”
I take her on the abbreviated tour—the conservatory, the lounge, the game room, the basement gym, the little room upstairs with spacious windows where Mom paints—and finish with the bedrooms.
Specifically, my childhood bedroom.
“This is so cute!” Winnie laughs when she sees the pictures of Spider-Man on the walls. The original and best Spider-Man, Tobey Maguire. “It’s weird thinking of you as a kid.”
It’s weird being back here, honestly.
I live so close I haven’t crashed here in ages, and when I do, it’s usually after a long holiday where I’ve had too much to drink and Colt’s stuffed with pie and zapped out on the sofa.
Some things never change, though.
I still see my old books on shelves, the classics and silly B-movie horror pulp I used to read growing up. My PlayStation sits in the corner, untouched since the last time Colt played with me for nostalgia.
There’s still old homework and papers I wrote packed away in boxes under the bed. The edge of one peeks out.
“I don’t know why she keeps half this stuff. Too much ancient history here,” I mutter, picking up an ornament of a cardinal and looking it over. I found it in my Christmas stocking one year and put it on top of my bookshelf so Mom wouldn’t get sad.
“Moms like to do that. Normal moms, I mean.” There’s no hiding the melancholy in her voice when she looks at me. “But you said ancient? I think you meant prehistoric.”
“Shut it, brat.” I snort.
“Did you have a happy childhood?” The way the question comes out makes me stare.