Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
We cry together, and as my tears wet the shoulder of her shirt, I realize it’s the first time. I bottled everything up in front of people after the accident, and although Mom cried as she clung to me, I just couldn’t do it. I knew if I lost it in front of everyone, with the exception of when I first heard the news, I knew I could never get it back. It wasn’t pride or trying to act tough. It was self-preservation.
As I pull back and brush my lips on her cheek, I can’t help but wonder how much further along in my healing I’d be if I’d just responded how I so desperately wanted to in those pivotal moments. Now that I’m ready to face them, I feel as if I waited too long, that the delay won’t bring the responses I need, that maybe mostly everyone else is over it and wondering why I just haven’t moved on from it.
“Sorry,” I say as I take a step back and wipe the remaining tears from my face.
“Never apologize to me for showing me your pain,” she says as her small hands cup my cheeks. “I’d take it all away if I could.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I will admit that it shocks me a little,” she says, her eyes darting to my dad. “I thought you were doing better than you are.”
Dad looks guilty, making me understand that he hasn’t been so quick to share just how often I still have bad days. I know they’ll be having a conversation about it later.
“I came here for granddaughter snuggles,” Dad grunts. “Why are we still standing in the kitchen?”
I laugh, urging both of them to follow me down the hall. “She’s napping, but I don’t think she’ll mind getting woken up. You two spoil her.”
I open Aria’s bedroom door, but hesitate before walking across the room. If she gets upset at the sight of me, I’m going to have even more to explain to my parents.
I rub slow circles on her tummy, waking her slowly, and when she lifts her head, she gives me a sleepy smile rather than crying like she did the last time she saw me.
“You have visitors,” I tell her, my mouth curling up into a smile to match hers.
“Step out of the way,” Dad says, giving me a gentle nudge.
Aria jolts at his gruff voice, but something must click because she’s wide awake, legs kicking in excitement. She’s reaching for him before he can bend down and scoop her from the crib. A squeal of delight makes us all laugh.
“I need to change her diaper before playtime starts,” I tell them.
“Nonsense. I know how to change a diaper,” Dad argues.
“You put the last one on backward. Why don’t you two go set the living room up for her, and I’ll take care of the diaper.”
Despite his argument, Dad quickly hands Aria over to Mom before making a beeline to the door.
“This is different,” he says as we step into the living room to find the toys still out from earlier when Ali must’ve been playing in here with her.
It gives me the power I need to pull my eyes from the wall where I had Ali pinned less than half an hour ago. It seems like a lifetime, but I can’t focus on missing her already or being desperate to go look for her.
“Yeah,” I agree with Dad as I look down at the pile of toys.
“I like it. Seems lived in. I can tell lots of fun happens right here.” He points to the pile of pink-and-purple building blocks before sitting on the floor to play with them like a child would.
Mom joins us before long, and I sit back on the sofa, watching them play with their granddaughter. I smile when appropriate, but I can’t stop my mind from drifting back to Ali, wondering what the hell she and Boomer are up to right now.
The day continues like that—me watching and my mind wandering for hours. We go through the motions of dinner, Mom offering to take care of Aria’s bath and bedtime while Dad and I grab a glass of whiskey each and sit out on the back porch.
“It’s nice out here,” he says.
“It’s hot,” I mutter, growing agitated with the sun setting and Ali not being home.
“But it’s a dry heat,” he says, lifting his glass to his lips. “The humidity in Texas can strangle a man.”
I grunt in agreement. Having lived in Texas most my life, I know exactly what he’s talking about.
I look down at my glass. “This is the first whiskey I’ve had since… she left.”
I can’t even say the word died, and that lends a hint to just how far I am from moving on like my parents mentioned earlier in the kitchen.