Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
His eyes narrow at me.
“And I told you we don’t need that.” My father will die on this hill. “It’s a waste of money.”
“We just lost a sale because we didn’t have an item. That’s a waste of money.”
“Old man Prichard doesn’t need any more ten-millimeter sockets. He needs new glasses and a better memory. It’s not our fault that he can’t remember where he puts his tools.”
I take a deep breath, my eyes darting to the ceiling. The dingy tile above our heads is just one more thing I need to add to the list of things to take care of.
“We’ll never be able to sell this place if we can’t get a system that works in place.”
His jaw clenches as he pops his paper one more time, effectively removing me from his line of sight.
“Whoever buys this place will want their own system in place.”
“You’d get a better price if it was turnkey,” I argue, but it’s as if I’m speaking to a brick wall, worse actually, because sometimes walls throw an echo back at you.
Dad just grunts, his way of telling me the conversation is over.
“Dad,” I begin, but a crash in another part of the store draws my attention.
My sly little twins are gone, no longer content to play with their toys behind the counter.
“They’re in the carabiners again,” Dad mutters. “They love those little things.”
I turn away from him and make my way over to the aisle the boys always dart to when I’m not looking.
“Really?” I say when I spot them. “I gave you each three of these to play with.”
“I didn’t have an orange one,” Cale says, holding up the prize in his hand.
“I gave you an orange one,” I remind him, squatting so I can pick up the spilled items.
“You gave Cole two orange ones. I got two blue ones.”
I clear my throat, coming very close to reminding them that I’m not their mother, and they can’t trick me the way they would her. I pay attention to what’s going on, and I’m not as easily manipulated.
“I gave each of you a blue one, a red one, and an orange one. If they got mixed up, all you needed to do was switch them back among yourselves. Now help me get this cleaned up and then I need you guys back behind the counter. The store is dangerous. Lots of things that can hurt you.”
I’m not a helicopter parent. I’m just as eager for my boys to experience life and learn things as they are to make those discoveries, but there are saw blades and a million pointy things in this place that can hurt them. I know just how dangerous it is because I have the scars to show what happens in this place when a kid is left to their own devices.
My father’s motto growing up of he has to learn just doesn’t sit right with me and my own kids.
I usher the boys back to the front of the store.
“You need some help with those boys,” Dad says.
I wish I could argue with the man, but I know when I’m in over my head.
The ache his words bring burns deep inside of me like an acid that threatens to burn from the inside out.
My mother would’ve loved to be the one to care for them while Dad and I get the hardware store ready for sale. Hell, if she were here, he probably wouldn’t even consider selling the place. They spent their lives here together. This place was as much her pride and joy as it was his.
Tragically, we lost her a year and a half ago. My boys didn’t get much time with her, something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I don’t know that they even have actual memories of her other than me showing them pictures and telling them stories.
The day this little town lost three of its citizens to the very same violence they have always tried to keep out, should’ve been the day everyone here opened their eyes to the reality that no one is safe in society anymore, but they just doubled down on their small-town living. Lindell may be safer than most places in the world, but that day proved that we weren’t untouchable.
“She might be interested.”
“What?” I ask, my father’s voice pulling me out of the grief that threatens to take over.
“Madison Kelly.”
“What about Madison Kelly?”
“She’s back home. You’d know that if you came to visit every once in a while.”
“We see each other every day here,” I argue. “And you’re at my house every Sunday working on the boys’ room.”
Avoiding talking about Madison is enough to draw his suspicion, and I watch as he lowers his paper and folds it haphazardly in his lap, giving me his full attention in a moment I wish he was distracted.