Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Price was right; I was killing him under the guise of love.
It was fear. A soul-crushing fear of losing control, of losing him. I made it about me and how I felt as his wife and the mother of our child.
The day I told Price it was okay to die, okay to let go, was the day I, too, let go of my mistakes and the regret they carried. I had to be whole inside for Astrid.
“It was a great hike, but my lazy girls refused to get out of bed.”
I smile, hearing his strong voice, yearning for the kiss I know he’s about to press to the top of my head.
The day I told Price it was okay to die was also the day everything changed. It was the day his body and mind decided it was time to live. I think he was waiting for me to let go.
Price’s favorite quote is from Lao Tzu: “The Master does nothing; yet he leaves nothing undone.”
When he kisses the top of my head, my skin tingles. Then he steps closer to the balcony's edge, drinking a glass of water and gazing at our view of Heaven.
“We should take Astrid to town today to distract her from Samuel. She’s missing him,” I say.
Price glances over his bare shoulder. His shorts are low on his waist, and his skin is a delicious bronze. “He’s not dead.”
Astrid sits up, folding her legs beneath her. “You don’t know that.”
“He’s camouflaged and high up in the trees.”
“Dad, I saw him every day for a week. And now he’s just gone. I bet it was a jaguar.” Astrid easily gets worked up over animals, and Samuel was (is) her unofficial pet sloth.
“He’s in the trees. He came down to mate; that’s why you saw him, but now he’s in the canopy again.” Price is good at arguing with her. He calls it “challenging” her.
“Daaaad, they mate in the trees.”
Price eyes me as if I’m the one who will confirm if she’s correct. I shrug. We know Astrid is smarter than us, especially about wildlife.
“Just say he’s dead, and you’re happy he’s in Heaven,” Astrid says, tipping up her defiant little chin.
Price rubs his lips together, no doubt trying to hide his grin. “You’re right. It probably was a jaguar.”
Astrid stands. “Was that so hard?” She pivots with an extra dose of attitude and heads down the stairs.
Price chuckles, reclining in her empty chair. “We’ve got a spicy one.”
I sip my juice before nodding. “That’s what we get for teaching her to question everything. Now she’s a know-it-all with an extra side of sass.”
Again, he chuckles. It’s a beautiful sound.
We have a beautiful life.
I don’t know how long it will last. We live a day at a time, grateful for each miraculous moment. My heart still knows I could lose him—the odds may never be in his favor. We sometimes share a knowing glance like we’re getting away with something, and it’s only a matter of time before this blissful bubble pops.
“It’s a good day to go to town. I think we should use that picture of us by the waterfall for postcards,” he suggests as if it’s not a big deal.
I don’t cry, but I want to. It’s a huge deal.
We have not contacted family or friends for eighteen months. When we departed, they knew it could be a long time before they’d hear from us, and they knew it could be the last time they saw Price. So I’ve left it up to him whether or when we contact family.
This is no longer our escape; it’s our life. And he’s ready to share it.
“Thank you for loving me this much,” he whispers, reaching for my hand.
Our fingers interlace.
’Til death do us part, my love.
Scottie
The weeds win. They always win.
I should surrender to the weeds. Perhaps they have a greater purpose.
“Nope. I won’t surrender to you. You’re no good,” I mumble to myself, yanking another little bastard from the soil of my raised-bed garden while Penelope’s wavy brown hair blows in the wind as Koen pushes her on the tree swing.
It doesn’t last long. Miss Busybody wants out to play in the dirt.
Minutes later, rocks crunch beneath Koen’s boots as he approaches me with mail in one hand and three-month-old Cedar Henry Sikes cradled in his other arm. “Promise not to cry?” he asks. “If you cry, Penn will cry. And Henry will cry because you two are scary when you cry. So …”
I sit back on my heels, pulling off my gardening gloves and wiping the sweat from my forehead. “Are we being audited?”
“Worse than that. We need to rename our son. It was all for nothing.” He smirks, handing me the stack of mail.
“What are you talking about?” I thumb through the pile of junk, stopping on a postcard.