Can't Let Go
Authors: Michelle Lynn
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Coming of Age, #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult & College, #Can't Let Go
Bonus Scene ~ DO NOT read if you haven't read Let Me Love yet.
CAN’T LET GO
Copyright ©2014 by Michelle Lynn
All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are either fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
1
st
Round Editor: Liz Aguilar with
Book Peddler’s Editing
Editing and Proofreading: Nichole Strauss with
Perfectly Publishable
Cover photo: Shutterstock
Cover Design: Sommer Stein with
Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Design and Interior Formatting: Christine Borgford with
Perfectly Publishable
8 years old
HERE I AM minding my own business, playing on my new Game Boy Color that my dad brought with him today when he picked me up. Another weekend-dad guilt gift. He must have won big, because, usually, it’s just a pack of baseball trading cards or candy my mom doesn’t allow me to have. I think I damaged his eardrum when he handed it to me once we got here. When his palm flew up to his ear I felt guilty, but come on, a blue Game Boy with a 007 Bond game is an eight-year-old’s dream. Especially when I’m stuck in the dingy basement of a ‘grocery store’ for a few hours so my dad can gamble. He’s been bringing me to these underground poker games all over town every other Saturday.
So, I’m right in the middle of the game, with James Bond sneaking behind walls, killing the bad guys and stealing the jewelry, when a girl flops down next to me, huffing loudly. Not willing to lose my place in the game, since I’m about two rooms away from the next code, I ignore her.
“What are you playing?” she asks, leaning over so her blonde hair falls right in front of my screen. You have got to be kidding me. Shifting my body, I move my Game Boy to the side, continuing to play. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, and I just shake my head.
A few minutes go by and all she does is stand up, sit down, and shift her feet, moving them up on the chair, then down on the floor. She plays with her hair, twisting it around her finger and lifting it up off her neck. I swear, if her elbow jabs me one more time, I’m going to go crazy James Bond on her. I’m out of continues, and I’ll have to start all over again if I die because of her.
Then she digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out whatever is so important that she elbows my arm again, making my fingers fly off of the A button, which, in turn, makes James Bond fall off a cliff and die. My teeth clenched, I turn off the game and glare over at her for the first time.
“Can you please stop moving?” I ask as politely as I can to a girl who doesn’t care that I just lost and will have to replay the whole two levels over again.
“Please,” she says as she rolls her eyes, “it’s a video game.”
“Now I have to do two levels over again,” I whine, and she just glares at me. No blinking, no caring at all.
“I’m pretty sure you have the time,” she says, and I hate to admit it, but she’s right. It’s only been an hour. I have at least four more, unless he loses it all in one shot. That’s only happened one weekend, and I had a huge smile when my dad came out only after a half hour. Unfortunately, the excitement quickly vanished when the rest of our day consisted of him reading over the paper and me wandering around the backyard, tossing a ball by myself.
Turning around from her, I turn my game on again and begin playing. Without warning, she’s leaning over my shoulder, throwing tons of questions at me.
“Stop it,” I demand, shifting my body away from her, but when I inevitably die, she’s right there.
“You died. Can I play it now?” She puts her hand out, and I’m so annoyed, but then I look at her worn clothes. Her shoes have one small tear by the tip of her toe and jeans so thin at the knee that I can see through them.
“Okay,” I say, handing her my new gift like my mom hands me her finest china during the holidays.
She grabs it out of my hands and begins playing a whole lot better than me. She’s breezing past the level I was stuck on, igniting jealousy. Once she dies two levels up from where I did, she hands it back over to me.
Gripping it in my hands, I stare at her in amazement that this girl who appears almost homeless just beat me on my own game. “I have a friend who has one,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m Chrissy by the way.”
“Dex,” I tell her.
10 years old
I BUCKLE MYSELF into our beat-up Chevy Caprice that shows more rust than paint. Not that I should complain, it gets us where we need to be. Driving away from our one-bedroom apartment, excitement churns inside of me with the thought that I’ll spend a few hours forgetting about my shitty life. With the fact that my mom left a month ago and hasn’t returned, I need the disruption more than my next meal. Especially since if we eat or not depends on how well my dad gambles today.
His gambling is out of control, but I’ve learned my lesson on speaking my opinion on that topic. Two weeks ago, he purposely didn’t bring me, which was the harshest punishment he could have given. Hitting me would have been better, because the pain would have been brief compared to a whole afternoon thinking about what I could be doing if I would have kept my mouth shut. The funniest part about it is though, he has no idea I know where he went and what he did. He thought he was keeping it a secret that he went there, that I wouldn’t know he gambled our week’s rent away.
We always park around the corner in some off chance the place gets busted. Up until two years ago, it was part of my nightly prayers that it would. But things changed when I turned that corner two years ago and found Dex sitting in that folding chair. Although I don’t pray for it to remain open, I just leave it out altogether. My eyes glance at the diner across the street, and I imagine all the delish foods they probably make every day while my stomach erupts with a growl sure to be heard from across town. That bowl of Fruit Loops not completely doing its job of filling my stomach as last night’s dinner.
“Stop wasting time. Let’s go.” My dad’s voice booms over to me, and I start walking faster to not upset him.
Weaving through the small ‘grocery store’, we wave to the usual knowing employees and walk down a series of steps to the underground level. Once we get to the stained linoleum hallway with two chairs set outside for the only two people that ever fill them, he knocks and is immediately let in. He never looks back at me or speaks a word. For the next four hours, I don’t exist in his mind and, truth is, we both prefer it that way. It’s like a mini vacation from our own hell.
I’m not sure why my dad never shipped me off to my grandparents’ or just left me at one of the places that takes unwanted kids. The only humane thing he’s done with me since my mom left us to pursue her own dreams is keep me instead of turning me over to foster care. Not that she was much of a mother anyway. Neither of my parents have ever been very parental.
Dex and his dad interrupt me just as I’m digging further in my mind that usually I try not to do. But I like to remind myself that I will not turn into him or the other kids that wander the streets. That I will get out of this one day and live a happy life with plenty of food and kids I will always tell how much I love them.
“There she is,” Theo, Dex’s dad, says as the heels of his dress shoes click on the floor. He doesn’t fit the type from around here. Tall, blonde, scruff on his face with a muscular build. Always dressed in nice slacks, a button-down, and dress shoes. No one would ever assume he’s as messed up as my dad—well, I guess he’s not as bad, but they run in the same circles.
“Hi, Mr. Prescott,” I answer, giving him a small wave. His large hand lays on top of my head, and he messes my hair up slightly before doing the same series of knocks my dad did ten minutes ago.
“You two have fun. Love you, Edge,” Mr. Prescott says, using Dex’s nickname he earned last year when he made a pick that stuffed peoples’ pockets. Not sure why the guys trusted him for his input, but they all tossed him some bills after, which got him so excited, which, in turn, made me hate him a little.
Soon Mr. Prescott’s gone and the smell of bubble gum and boy wafts under my nostrils. A wide smile instantly crosses my lips because I’ve been waiting for two weeks to see him. “What’s up, Chrissy?” he asks and hands me a Game Boy. I’m scrunching my eyes up, getting ready to ask him what’s this when he quickly remarks, “I borrowed my friend’s for the day,” answering my unasked question.