Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Bailey poured me more wine. “You’ve been working so hard for so long. You went right from law school to losing Mrs. Angelini, then passing the bar and starting a job. You deserve this break.”
“Yeah, as long as it doesn’t go on too long. You know me. I always need something to focus on, or else I’ll go crazy. Taking care of the house is not going to be enough.”
“How long can you afford not to work?”
“Well, thanks to Mrs. Angelini, I don’t have a mortgage. And she left enough money to cover the property taxes for at least five years.”
“Good. Try to enjoy this time.”
That was the problem. I didn’t want too much free time. While the memories had brought me back here, I worried that it could all backfire. My biggest fear was becoming depressed while living alone at the Narragansett house with little else to focus on. Not only did I miss my beloved foster mother, the memories of Leo would be freshest here at home. I worried about having to look across the bay and deal with all of the feelings that would conjure up.
As if fate were paying attention to my current insecurities, Bailey went over to her cabinet and returned with a can of SpaghettiOs, of all things. That seemed like a strange sign from the universe. My eyes welled up.
“Are you okay?” Bailey asked as she opened the can and placed the contents in a small pot on the stove.
“Yeah. It’s just allergies.” I sniffled.
It was eerie being back at the house without her. This was part of the reason I’d avoided it for so long.
Upstairs, I went straight to Mrs. Angelini’s room, which looked the same as I remembered. Her long, woolly sweater was still thrown over a chair in the corner, as if she might walk in at any second and put it on. I lay on the bed and curled into her pillow, which still held a hint of her smell. How was that even possible after two years? Opening her side table drawer, I found a half-empty bottle of Fireball.
Smiling, I opened it and saluted the ceiling. “This is for you, Mrs. Angelini.” I took a long swig, the cinnamon liquor burning my throat as it went down.
After several minutes and a few more sips, I could feel it going to my head. And it was not having a relaxing effect. Instead, I felt emotional. Thoughts of Mrs. Angelini flooded my senses. I had so much regret when it came to her. I thought I’d have many more years to show her how much I appreciated her—how much I loved her. It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized she was my mother—in all the ways that mattered, at least.
She never knew I saw her that way. I’d had her in my life longer than the woman who birthed me, and I wouldn’t even call her by her first name. It undoubtedly would have brought her joy to know I had opened my heart to her. Looking around her room only validated that. There were pictures of me everywhere: me and Matt dressed for our senior prom, my high school and college graduations, photos of Mrs. Angelini and me on the boat with her brother, Paul.
Why is it that sometimes we only realize how much we love someone once we lose them? It’s one of the most unfair things about life, if you ask me. Closing the bottle of Fireball, I tucked it back inside her night table. I could have fallen asleep in her bed, a sobbing mess, but I lifted myself off the mattress and went to my room.
If I thought that would ease my aching heart, I was wrong. The first thing that met my eyes was Leo’s painting, the one I’d watched him create the day that we admitted it was essentially over for us. I remembered that horribly bittersweet feeling of watching him paint that afternoon, a mix of hopelessness and appreciation for the moment. And now I was thinking about him again. As if crying over a two-year-old’s SpaghettiOs wasn’t bad enough.
Walking to my window, I looked out across the bay at the house where Leo and Sig once lived. Thinking about Leo’s cousin made me chuckle. He was such a dickhead—but a funny one.
There were lights on at the house. I had no clue who lived there now, but it was easy to imagine Leo and Sig were inside, just like it was yesterday—Sig cooking in the kitchen while Leo got ready to drive the boat across the bay.
I looked up at the moon illuminating the night sky.
“At night, when you look up at it, I hope you’ll think of me.”
There wasn’t a single time I’d looked at the moon in the past five years that I didn’t think of Leo. My heart clenched. I needed to stop. But like anything, the more I tried to stop thinking about him, the worse it was.