Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
He swallows and then nods slowly. “I understand why you won’t believe me. I haven’t been the best parental figure.”
I run my fingers through my raven-black hair. It’s grown a little longer than the last time I took a hair trimmer to it. I make a mental note to cut my hair when I get home. Anyway, I like to keep it short, buzz cut to the scalp — marine-style.
“I understand your concerns about Naomi. You are right; I won’t disrupt her life.” He shoves his hand into the pocket of his navy-blue jeans. “But what about you? You’re older and you remember me. Can we at least have a relationship?”
He pulls something out of his pocket, his fist closed. My father stretches his arm toward me, as if to hand me whatever he’s holding. Feeling skeptical at first, I don’t take the bait. My fists clench at my sides, and I keep my arms down. Refusing to take anything from him.
He opens his fist, showing me a light-colored, familiar rock. It’s small enough to hold in the palm of his hand. “Do you remember this?” he asks, his voice gruff. “You gave this to me; you said it was a pretty rock. I kept it, all these years.”
I remember now.
I was eight years old when I found the granite rock. I waddled home, like a happy penguin with my treasure and proudly showed it to my father. He seemed disinterested back then.
“You told me that granite forms from the slow crystallization of magma underneath the earth’s surface.”
My eyes snap to his face. “You remember?”
“I remember.”
“I didn’t think you were listening.”
His smile is bittersweet. “I’m not always a good listener. But believe me, I do care for you, son.”
He keeps his arm stretched out between us, the rock still in his hand. Waiting for me to take it. “Give me a chance to prove it.”
I swallow past the heavy lump in my throat. Reaching forward, I take the rock from his hand. My tanned, brown skin is a stark contrast to his unhealthy pale skin.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him, shoving the rock into my pocket.
He grins. “Thank you, Grayson. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
I simply shrug, then watch as he takes a step back. He walks away, his lean frame disappearing between the thick trees.
I don’t glance back at the restaurant, where Naomi is celebrating her sixth birthday with her new family and her kindergarten friends.
Mikael and Rehya have closed their restaurant for today and have transformed the place into a kid’s playground. With balloons and child-friendly games.
Naomi is dressed in a green princessy dress, and she has a tiara on top of her head. Her curly hair frames her tiny face. A birthday party that I’ve never been able to give her before.
Maybe I am a coward for walking away.
But just like I asked my father not to disrupt Naomi’s life — I have absolutely no right to do the same.
Maybe I am a coward for walking away…
But I refuse to confuse Naomi. To have her question why we’re not together, why we’ve been separated. What do I tell her? She’s too young to understand.
Maybe one day when she’s older…
She needs to move on, without me interfering in her life like this. Popping in randomly after a year. I am the ghost of her past, and I need to keep it that way.
“Goodbye, Princess,” I breathe.
***
Aunt Naveah piles up my plate with Caribbean rice and beans. Her specialty and probably my favorite dish of hers. That and her apple pie. “Wait, that’s too much,” I tell her.
She puts another spoonful on my plate, leveling me with a look that says don’t even try it. Aunt Naveah has her hair in a head wrap and is wearing a flowery apron. Her smile is warm and infectious. “You’re a growing boy with an appetite, I know. So, hush, and eat now. I don’t always cook.”
They have a personal chef who makes all our daily meals. But on Sundays, Aunt Naveah is the one who does the cooking. She spends the whole day in the kitchen. Unless she’s got an emergency surgery to rush to. Which has only happened twice so far.
So Aunt Naveah doesn’t always cook. But when she does, she makes sure that Uncle Ben and me finish the whole casserole. She doesn’t allow any leftovers.
I wait for both Uncle Ben and Aunt Naveah to start eating first, before shoving a spoon of rice in my mouth and chewing enthusiastically. “You’re not feeding an army,” I grumble under my breath, without any heat. I know she enjoys cooking on Sundays.
She points between me and Uncle Ben. “I am feeding two men who equal an army. And you, Mr. Hale,” she directs her attention to her husband.