Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
I sigh. “No, not at all. I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him.”
Roman lets out a gentle laugh. “That’s what I asked when you weren’t listening to me. I asked if you knew what you were going to say. Now we know the answer.”
I squeeze his hand as he kisses it one last time and places it back on his lap. “It’s been so many years, but I think it’s time our father is a part of our lives again.”
“What does Dev think?”
I glance out the window, watching the tapestry of greenery pass us by. “He wants no part of it.”
“It’s a tough spot. I remember your father never being around after your mother died. It must have killed him to think she committed suicide. I think that breaks a person.”
I shift my gaze toward him, his eyes focused intently on the highway before us. “It killed all of us. It breaks everyone.”
Roman steals a swift glance in my direction, his gaze lingering on me for a fleeting moment before returning to the road ahead. "I know it did," he murmurs softly, his voice carrying a hint of understanding.
“He was being selfish. He had two kids who were dealing with the loss of their mother.” I will myself not to cry.
Roman lifts my hand again and brings it to his lips. “I wish I knew the perfect words to say right now, because I’d say them over and over to you.”
I summon a strained smile, feeling completely hollow. “I know.” I drop his hand and resume looking out the window until the small town of Magnolia Ridge comes into view.
“Do you ever miss it?” Roman asks as we get closer to the town.
“Miss what?”
“Living in a small town. Everyone knowing all your business.”
I laugh lightly. “Everyone already does. That’s why we have to pretend to be dating.”
Roman nods as he pulls onto Main Street and heads downtown. “Right. Pretend to date,” he whispers, like he’s lost in thought.
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I love my life in Saint Pierce. I’d never come back here.”
He loves his life. The life where he visits my brother’s club for a good time. The life where he and I are just friends and nothing more.
Right. My already somber mood plunges even deeper into despondency.
He pulls up to my old home, and my father’s car is in the driveway. “Call me when you want me to pick you back up. I’ll be at the nursing home where my mother’s staying.”
“Good luck.” I lean over and give him a hug.
He holds onto me tightly. “Good luck to you too.”
“If you want to wait, I can go with you to visit your mother.”
Roman debates my offer for all of five seconds and then shakes his head. “No, go enjoy your time with your father. I wouldn’t want you to waste time with my mother.”
I kiss his cheek. “I’ll be thinking of you,” I say to him.
He gazes at me, face serious. “I’m always thinking of you.”
I haven’t been home since I graduated college.
With hesitant knuckles, I rap against the front door, each echo resonating through the silence of the hallway. The heavy weight of anticipation hangs in the air as my father swings the door open, revealing his weathered face, etched with lines of worry and surprise. His eyes, once bright with familiarity, now regard me with a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty. Perhaps in his eyes, I’m a ghost, a fading memory resurrected by the knock on the door, stirring emotions long buried beneath the surface.
He invites me in, and I take one small tentative step forward.
Nothing’s changed. The family picture still hangs over the sofa in the living room. I inch closer, drawn to scrutinize my mother's image more closely. It's sad to admit, but sometimes her face eludes me when I try to conjure it in my mind. The scent of fresh raspberries mingled with cream triggers a flood of memories, transporting me back to my childhood. I recall her tenderly brushing my hair after bath times, her touch dripping with love and care. And the way her eyes would light up with joy whenever I wished her a happy birthday—she adored those occasions, believing that they warranted celebration like a national holiday.
And now I’ll always celebrate March 22nd as one.
It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t understand why she’d kill herself if she loved to celebrate the day she was born so much.
My father hasn’t said anything since he’s let me into the house. He stands with a quiet dignity, his eyes watching me closely, most likely wondering why I’m here standing in his living room.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Greer,” he whispers out, like he hasn’t spoken the name in years. And maybe he hasn’t. “What are you doing here?”