Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Grandma holds my proffered arm while I escort her into the house. “I never thought I’d get to see your place.”
“It’s Will’s place, but it feels like mine with him and Maren gone for the holiday.” By the time I shut the door and help Grandma out of her jacket, Jamie’s at the top of the stairs. “Maren washed her sheets, so my grandma will be in that room.”
Without looking back, Jamie nods and turns right.
“Can I get you something to eat?” I ask.
“You know what I need?” Grandma straightens her blue paisley blouse.
“What’s that?”
“The bathroom. Then a nap.”
I chuckle. “Understandable. Sorry for the stairs.”
“It’s fine.” Again, she takes my arm, and we navigate the stairs like two sloths.
By the time we reach the top, Jamie’s waiting for us.
“Need any help?” Jamie asks, sliding her hands into her jeans pockets.
“I’ll take it from here, dear. You’ve already done too much.” Grandma pats Jamie’s arm before disappearing into the bathroom.
I stand two steps from the top and pull Jamie into my arms so that my head rests on her chest over her heart. “I’ve missed you.”
After a few seconds, she teases her fingers through my hair, and her body vibrates when she inhales a shaky breath.
I lift my head, eyes squinting. “I wasn’t going to push this, but I can’t ignore it. Are you still upset about Halloween?”
Her eyes are a million miles away, eerily dislocated from me, this moment, and everything around us.
I’ve never seen anyone appear so lost.
“No,” she whispers.
The bathroom door opens. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be napping.” Grandma heads toward Maren’s room. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”
Her overly obvious hint would typically pull a chuckle from me, but I can’t find the slightest smile.
“I’m having my period,” Jamie says, sliding past me to descend the stairs.
Admittedly, I’m not an expert on women’s hormones and the mood swings that accompany them. Maren either hides the emotional elements of her cycle, or I’ve totally missed them.
I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“I should start on the pies. Did you get the ingredients?” She opens the fridge door.
I close it and stand in front of it, arms crossed. “I don’t think you’ve been on your period for a whole month. You have to spell this out for me. And I’m sorry if that makes me an asshole for not knowing or not reading your mind or the stars, the moon—whatever. What did I do wrong?”
Her forehead wrinkles while she stares at my chest. “I’m so”—she pauses, pressing her lips together for a beat—“sorry that you’ve felt unworthy of love. Of family. Of a full and beautiful life.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “You’ve done nothing wrong—just the opposite. You’ve done everything right. Never forget that you are worthy of everyone who chooses to love you.”
“Jaymes.” I frame her face, not expecting her tears. But in a single blink, they escape, and I wipe them away one by one. “Baby, no. Don’t cry.”
It’s not just tears. She sobs.
“No.” I deposit endless kisses all over her face. “I love you. I love you. I love you. And I should have just said it a long time ago.”
“D-don’t say that,” she manages to blurt out, losing all control. “I-I t-thought I could w-wait.”
I hug her, wrapping my arms so tightly around her that I fear I’ll squeeze her to death because I need her to feel my love. “Wait for what?” Panicking is not my thing. I don’t panic. But I can’t help but wonder what happened. Christ, did she fall in love with another man?
She couldn’t wait for what? Me?
“I can’t hold it in any longer.” Her words cut through the nonexistent space between us—a gut-wrenching confession.
Then it all comes out at once. A long sentence with no pauses, no breaths. “The patient who thought I was his daughter and then I thought was my uncle is not my uncle. My mom was not my mom. She was my aunt who tried to protect me from my father, Dwight Keane—the man who started the fire that killed your family. And I’m so sorry, Fitz.”
With a gasping inhale, she steps away from me and cups a hand over her mouth. Eyes painfully red and filled with endless tears. “I’m so very sorry,” she whispers past her held breath.
I hear her, but the words haven’t fallen into place yet. They’re still jostling in my head, like in the Boggle game I used to play with my grandma. Some of the letter cubes are on their sides, waiting to be shaken into their respective slots. Then I can see everything and connect the pieces.
Slowly shaking my head, I murmur, “That’s impossible.”
She presses the back of her hand to her runny nose and sniffles. “I wish it were.”
I continue to shake my head. “You’re from Florida. You’ve lived there your whole life. He was a park ranger in California.”