Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
It felt like a gift.
“Tell me more about when you were young.”
Stella lay on her side, facing me on the mattress with her hands tucked under her cheek. Her legs were tangled up with mine, the sweat still drying on our skin—we hadn’t even made it to the back door before our lips were locked, our hands tearing at each other’s clothes, our bodies craving to be skin to skin. Jackets, shoes, socks, jeans, shirts, underwear—we’d left a trail from the kitchen through the dining room into the bedroom.
“What do you want to know?” I was on my back, one hand beneath my head, one hand on her thigh.
“I don’t know. Anything. Were you happy?”
I looked at the ceiling and thought about it. “Yeah. I was. We didn’t have much money or anything, but we were okay. My dad had a landscaping and snow removal business. My mom taught Sunday School at our church.”
“You went to Sunday School?”
I pinched her leg. “You don’t have to sound so surprised, you know.”
She laughed. “Sorry. What’s your favorite childhood memory?”
I didn’t even have to think about it. “My mom loved to bake, and every day when I came home from school, there would be something in the oven or already made, still warm. I’d sit down and gobble up cookies or brownies, and she’d sit with me and ask about my day.” I could still see her, chin on her hand, flour dusting her blouse, her long dark hair pushed back with a headband. I’d always loved her long hair as a kid. I was eighteen when it fell out after chemo, but I fucking cried like a baby alone in my room after seeing her for the first time.
“Do you visit your parents a lot?”
“No.” I hesitated, then thought fuck it. “My mom died of breast cancer right after I graduated from high school.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached over and put a hand on my chest. “Want to tell me about her?”
I didn’t want to look at her because I was scared I’d tear up. I never talked about my mom. Ever. Not even to Mack. But suddenly I needed to say her name. “Her name was Virginia, but everybody called her Jenny.”
“What else?” Her fingertips brushed back and forth just below my collarbone.
“She made me say my prayers every night before bed.”
Stella laughed gently. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She said I needed them because I was such a reckless kid. She was convinced I was going to break my neck one day. It’s kind of a miracle that I didn’t.”
“Good thing you said them, then.”
“She was like your grandmother, always baking things for other people or sending meals to anyone who was struggling. My dad used to get so mad because it’s not like we could afford to give food away.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.”
“How about your dad? Do you see him often?”
“Not really. My dad and I had a complicated relationship. He was hard on me growing up.”
“Hard on you, how? Did he hit you?”
“Yeah. But not my sisters. I probably deserved it, though.”
“No child deserves to be hit. Ever.”
I liked the ferocity in her voice, the moral certainty of her statement. I believed that too, but it was hard to reconcile that belief with the things I’d done, and it was a big part of why I couldn’t see myself as a father. But I didn’t want to get into that. “Well, that’s how he was raised, and there was always justification for it in the Bible, so that’s how it was. Whoever spares the rod hates his son.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” Even if sometimes it didn’t feel that way. “My mom tried to make up for it.”
She was silent a moment. “Where’s your dad now?”
“He remarried really quickly to a woman my sisters and I didn’t really take to. She moved into the house, and seeing her in it drove me fucking nuts. Sitting in my mom’s chair, moving around in her kitchen, sleeping in her bed …” I swallowed hard. “I had to get out of there.”
“Is that when you enlisted?”
“Kind of. It was either that or lose my fucking mind. I was just so angry all the time. Nothing seemed fair.”
“I bet.”
“I remember wanting to fight so badly. I couldn’t wait to go.”
“And did it make you feel better? Was that the answer? I’m sorry,” she said right away, flattening her palm on my chest. “You don’t have to answer that. It’s a total therapist question.”
I looked over at her and had to smile at her worried expression. “It’s okay. At first, it was the answer. I felt like I was doing something good, fighting against something bad. It was a relief in a way, to have somewhere to channel the rage. And to have that kind of purpose.” I looked at the ceiling again. “I felt like my mom would have been proud.”