Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I got his attention.
His touch.
His affection.
And now he had written a song for me.
He had called it The Rise.
Hearing it, well, it filled me up completely, went deep into all my hidden, dark corners, chased out any lingering cold, replacing it with a warmth I had never known before.
Falling in love with Vance the first time had been amazing.
But falling in love with him this time?
It was fucking perfect.
Fourteen
Ferryn - Present Day
"You're leaving?" I asked, hearing an embarrassing hitch of desperation in my voice, a neediness that I didn't like hearing there. Even if he was the only one there to bear witness to it.
Love was love.
But neediness was neediness.
And I would be damned if I was needy.
I could absolutely do this on my own.
That said, I just figured he would be going in with me, would be by my side.
This was, after all, his sister.
"Think you two need some time to catch up. I'll be back later. I'll bring donuts," he added, giving me a quick kiss to the temple before ringing the doorbell then taking off.
Leaving me there alone.
"I don't know how many times I have to tell you that you don't need to ring the bell," Iggy's voice called through the door as she reached for the knob, opening it. "You have a key..." she trailed off, mouth falling open, eyes seemingly confused by my presence, like she was sure she was seeing things. "Ferryn?"
"Hey, Iggs," I said, giving her what felt like a really wobbly smile.
"Oh, my God. Wh.. when..." she trailed off, having trouble putting words together.
"Uncle Vance!" a little voice shrieked, bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor behind Iggy. Then, "Oh." The disappointed sound of a child not getting what they clearly wanted.
Child.
Uncle Vance.
"What... when..." It was my turn to not be able to make my thoughts and tongue work in unison.
Iggy put her hand down on the top of the sandy-blond hair of what seemed to be a five or six-year-old girl with brilliant blue eyes that her mother and uncle shared.
"This is Olive. Ollie. We call her Ollie. Ollie, this is..."
"The girl from the pictures," Ollie declared with confidence.
"Yep. The girl from the pictures. Ferryn. Your aunt..."
"Not really," Ollie objected, rolling her eyes.
"No, not really. Not by blood. But still. You call her Aunt Ferryn."
"Where have you been?" Ollie asked, and I couldn't help but wonder where she got her bluntness from. Iggy had never been so sure of herself, so bold. But maybe that was the point. She was trying to foster things in her daughter that she hadn't always possessed.
Her daughter.
God.
"I, ah, I've been learning things."
"Like in school?"
"Sort of."
"Boring," Ollie decided, making a surprised laugh burst out of me as she turned and walked away.
"I have a feeling it was not boring," Iggy declared, opening the door wider. "Come on in."
Iggy's house was the exact polar opposite of the household she herself had grown up in. I always felt uncomfortable walking in her front door where her parents insisted I take off my shoes, where the soft surfaces were always covered, where there was never so much as a speck of dust on any surface, where there were bare walls and not a single knick-knack unless religious memorabilia counted. Everything had been painted in an oppressively drab off-white color, the windows heavily draped.
Iggy's house, though, was a mishmash of unapologetically bright colors.
Red bathroom.
Bright yellow living room.
Periwinkle blue kitchen, where she led me to a small round table with a chalkboard top, little childish pictures of one-legged birds and three-eyed monsters donning the top.
There was art everywhere; huge canvases butting up against one another, photographs on the mantle three deep. Toys positively littered the living room floor. Sneakers were forgotten in the hall.
Not dirty.
Just lived in.
Comfortable.
After years of living in a show house, I imagined Iggy felt like she could really breathe here.
"You're a mom," I declared when she carried the stainless steel coffee carafe over to the table, two mismatched mugs dangling from her fingers.
"I'm a mom," she agreed, nodding.
"She's... five?"
"Six," Iggy corrected, going back for the sugar and cream before sitting down.
"You were..."
"Eighteen when I got pregnant. Nineteen when I had her."
"Your parents..." I started, then suddenly recalled how Vance had said things had finally blown up. I guess now I knew why.
"Oh, yes. As you can imagine, they were just thrilled by the news of their unwed teenaged daughter who was supposed to be a virgin until marriage and then only have sex for means of procreation getting knocked up."
"I mean, to be fair, they would have lost their minds if they knew you ate meat on Fridays during Lent."
"That's true," she agreed, nodding.
"What did they do? Demand you get married?"
To that, her lips turned up. It wasn't a smile, but more like a bitter sneer. "They wanted me to 'take care of it,'" she said, using air quotes.