Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I wasn’t one to cry, but that comment almost brought it out of me.
“How did she love to spend her weekends?” she asked next.
My tongue pushed into the side of my cheek as I tried to press down the emotions stirred inside me by Starlet’s questions. No one had ever asked me that question. No one had ever given me the space even to share my mother’s name.
I stared down at my hands and cleared my throat. “By the water. She loved fishing. My grandfather took her out on the water when she was a kid, and it became her favorite hobby. Every weekend during the summer, we’d go fishing down at Estes Park with my father. It’s his favorite park and Mom’s favorite part of the lake. We found a hidden area that people didn’t know about, and we’d fish there for hours. We’d even go ice fishing up north during the winter. That was her and my dad’s favorite time. I hated it. It was cold, and we’d just sit there for the longest time. But I always asked to go with them. It was kind of our thing. Now, I miss the cold-ass days on the ice, doing that with them.”
“You don’t still go with your father?”
My jaw tightened. “My father died the day my mom passed away.”
Her mouth dropped in shock. “Oh my goodness, I didn’t know—”
I shook my head. “No. He’s still physically here, but what I mean is, the day my mom left, my father mentally checked out, too. He’s like the walking dead.”
“Milo…I’m so deeply sorry. I cannot imagine how hard that is for you.”
I shrugged. “Tell me about your parents,” I said, needing to shift the conversation.
Starlet smiled, but it felt sad. Still, she accepted my request. “I’ve never been fishing, but my parents love nature. We’d go hiking and biking every week when I was a kid. I haven’t done it in so long, but that reminds me of my mom. I’m glad you have fishing to remind you of yours.”
“I don’t fish anymore because it reminds me of her.”
“I don’t ride bikes or hike anymore because it reminds me of her.”
I stayed quiet. I didn’t know how to process what I was feeling. Mom was better at explaining my own emotions to me than I was myself.
“What was her favorite candy?” Starlet asked.
The corner of my mouth twitched. “Reese’s Cups. She’d eat the jagged edge off first before eating the inside.”
“It makes sense. The peanut butter is the best part.”
I smiled a little.
Only a little, but she noticed, and then her smile grew wider, too. She was good at that—smiling. Smiles were probably created mainly for people like Starlet. The two things went together very well. I was more into grimacing myself.
“What was your mom’s favorite candy?” I asked.
She shivered in disgust. “Black licorice.”
“I’m sorry to hear that your mother was a psychopath.”
She laughed, and it sounded like something I’d want on a vinyl record so I could play it repeatedly. “Yes, she had her set of flaws, black licorice being at the top of the list.”
I relaxed a bit into my chair. “What’s your favorite candy?”
“Red licorice, but the rope kind that you can peel. Anything else is boring.”
“So you’re from a licorice family.”
She leaned in and whispered, “Yeah, but I like the good kind, not Satan’s flavor.”
I smiled a little more.
She made that happen involuntarily.
“My favorite is Sour Patch Kids,” I mentioned. She didn’t ask, but still, I shared.
She gave me a devilish look. “Do you relate to your candy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you first sour, then shockingly sweet?”
I huffed. “No. I’m just like a pound of sour.”
She laughed again.
Fuck me, that laugh.
“I like Sour Patch Kids. I lick the sour off the candy, though, instead of sucking them off in my mouth,” she explained.
The thought of her licking the candy pleased me more than I’d admit. “That’s weird.”
“I’m a weirdo.”
“Yeah, you are.” I shifted and fiddled with my hands. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Ask me more questions about my mother.”
She did exactly that. She asked me what felt like a million questions, and still, they didn’t feel like enough. We stayed at the library longer than planned. We talked about our moms as if they were still alive. I told her stories about my mother that I’d never shared with another. Starlet cried, but that wasn’t surprising to me. She seemed the type to feel everything a little deeper than others. I wondered what that was like—to feel everything so deeply at all times, no matter what.
It wasn’t until the librarian came and knocked on the study room that we snapped out of whatever weird world we’d created between the two of us.
“Sorry, the library is closing,” they told us.
“Oh gosh. I’m sorry. We got carried away. Thank you,” Starlet said as she gathered her things to leave. I did the same.