Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Alfie and Trip were finished too, and someone offered to take our picture in front of a cartoon backdrop of Philly’s skyline, complete with monkeys swinging between the buildings and animals roaming the streets.
Alfie and I exchanged a brief glance, and I could practically read his mind. He was as miserable as I was. But we huddled together after handing over my phone to the guy, and he took our picture. Like a happy family.
Trip and Ellie were over the moon.
“I want that picture in my room!” Ellie exclaimed.
“Will you send it to me?” Alfie asked quietly.
“Of course.” I attached the picture in a text. “For what it’s worth, you make a very cute butterfly.”
He smirked a little.
“He totally does,” Ellie giggled. “Don’t scratch it!”
“But it itches,” Alfie defended. “I think I have glitter in my nose. If I sneeze, it’s gonna look like the Fourth of July.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
One pony ride for Ellie later, we were starving, and the line for the sliders was too long. So we found a barbecue truck instead and ordered a big family platter that we brought over to the picnic tables.
A table near the end had just cleared, and Alfie cleaned up the leftover napkins and two straws while I divvied up the food onto paper plates.
Considering we were very close to the petting zoo, I had a feeling Ellie was going to finish her food fast and go over there.
“Goddamn littering,” Alfie muttered and sat down.
“I almost flipped my lid in traffic the other day,” I mentioned. “Someone dumped a McDonald’s bag right out the window on 95, and I honked and dusted off my middle finger.”
He shook his head. “People suck.” He had Ellie next to him, and she watched her fingers, as if figuring out which the middle one was.
When the kids had food on their plates, they didn’t waste a second. Trip dove for the ribs, and Ellie went nuts for the cornbread and pulled pork. The burnt ends were terrific, but my mac and cheese was better.
“This has nothin’ on your mac and cheese.” Alfie echoed my thought.
“I was just thinking.” The trick was to use real cheddar and to pour a mix of shredded cheese and crumbs from nachos on top. In addition, finely chopped jalapeños. “Oh—remember the steakhouse in Nashville—”
“—where you got jalapeños on the mac and cheese?” he chuckled. “Yeah. That’s where it’s at.”
I’d thought my heart couldn’t sink any lower. I was wrong.
It hurt so goddamn much to know we were still so in tune with each other. Because we shared too many memories and views.
I ate on autopilot and tried to direct all my attention to the children, who weren’t as chatty as I needed them to be. Trip was rocking sideways in his seat, humming to himself and mumbling how much he “appreciated” the food. He didn’t say it was yummy or super awesome; he appreciated it. And Ellie, our rambler, was eating and looking over at the petting zoo.
Alfie and I had shared countless moments of comfortable silences over the years, but never during a meal. We were talkers. We could start off with something we’d seen on the news or read somewhere, and by the time our plates were empty, we were two hundred topics away without having noticed a single segue.
Sitting here quietly with him felt entirely unnatural and forced, yet I had nothing to say. My brain was chock full of all the stages of grief. Part of me wanted to bargain. Part of me wanted to forgive and forget. Another part couldn’t close the open wounds that were still bleeding too heavily. I was so profoundly hurt—and angry—that it was like Groundhog Day. It felt like I was going to recycle all these emotions every day for the rest of my life.
I was constantly going back and forth with his blurted-out confessions, his texted rambling, and his apologies laced with finality and defeat. He’d admitted to having screwed up majorly enough that even he didn’t see a path to forgiveness. For no other reason would he let me know he wasn’t anywhere near ready to see me move on with someone else—but…he knew it was what I deserved.
I scratched my cheek, only to make a face, which in turn tugged at the dried paint. Why did kids want that cakey nonsense? My face felt like it was full of cracks, like a desert with dried-out soil.
Biting into a cornbread roll, I was struck with a loss of appetite so forcefully that I immediately returned the roll to the tray. It was difficult to swallow.
Too many voices, set to different volumes, argued in my head. To forgive or to scream. To apologize for my family or to…scream.
Fuck.
Pressure was building up inside me, and I had a feeling I knew how I was going to self-medicate tonight when I came home to an empty house. It was going to be me, my phone with his texts, and a bottle of something very strong.