Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Let’s say I follow your advice and let Dove read it. Then what?”
“Then you write the next chapter. In your head. Or on the page. Write the best damn story you can imagine for yourself. Then go out and live it.”
“What if my brain is an unreliable narrator? What if it edits out the parts where I deserve good things?”
“Then you remind it. Every day. With little stuff. Food. Warm showers. Letting people hug you. Reading a page. Writing a sentence. Making love to a pretty mechanic. Remind it that you aren’t where you were anymore.”
My mouth tastes like pepper and coffee and something like grief. I look down at the book, the cover darkening where my fingers sit, sweat seeping into the fabric.
The robe’s cuff brushes the edge of the cover, and for a second, I see my mother’s hand where mine is, the way she used to press herbs with her palm and tuck them into a tin.
I swallow hard enough it hurts. “I’m going to mess it up.”
“Probably.” She smiles. “But you’ll mess it up honestly. That’s a better story already.”
“Dove’s going to ask me things.”
“She might. Or she might not. She might just be there and hand you a wrench when you choke like an engine.”
“She won’t hand me the wrench. She’ll throw it at my head.”
“Sounds like a woman who belongs in our home.”
Our home.
The thought sends an avalanche down the inside of my ribs, and I breathe easier under it.
We sit with that a minute, the books between us.
Then I stand and pour more coffee, black and mean. The first sip is bitter enough to strip paint, fizzing on my tongue. I swallow and feel it hit my stomach like a small grenade, the good kind, the one that clears fog.
“What will you do now?” she asks, not as a command or a test. She trusts I have an answer.
Tattooing is a no-go today. I don’t want to see Jag until I come clean with his sister.
“I’ll bring food to Dove.” I shrug. “And take a shower.”
“And after?”
“I’ll… Read a page.” I glance at her journal. “Maybe two if the first one doesn’t eat my lungs.”
“Perfect.” She releases a slow breath as if I just saved a life. “And later, if you want, we can talk to Dr. Thurber about grounding exercises that don’t end with you emptying the hot water tank.”
“You mean, Dr. Freud. Because let’s be honest. He’s all but asked me to fingerpaint my mommy issues.”
She grins at the joke.
A grin that proves time passed, and we both survived.
The house makes its old-man noises, wood settling and pipes sighing. Right on cue, one of Frankie’s old men flushes a toilet upstairs.
Beyond the kitchen window, a strip of water flashes silver. The dock slaps and mutters. Somewhere, a gull yells profanity. The air through the cracked window feels heavy and wet like a tongue on my skin. Summer’s here, creeping up the back steps.
I build a plate for Dove, going overboard with sliced apples, eggs, toast, and thick smears of jam. I pour her coffee and add cream until it turns the color of wet sand.
The bloom of milk in the mug is a small, lovely thing. I want to give her more small, lovely things until the pile of them is big enough to stand on and see our future. Together.
Frankie watches me and says nothing, which is another gift. I set the cup on the tray and look up.
Her eyes shine bright. “I love you.”
“Love you more, ma cerise chérie.”
I tuck the journals under my arm, grab the tray, and kiss the top of her head on my way out.
The walk back is shorter than it was an hour ago. Inside the guest house, the air smells like wet cedar and the faint, old sweetness of wooden bones.
Upstairs, I set the tray on the dresser and stand still, listening.
Dove makes a small sound in her sleep and shifts, the sheet whispering against her shoulder. I carry the coffee to the nightstand and set it down where she can reach it. The movement wakes her.
Her eyes open, honey warm, then sharpen. Sleep to fight in an instant.
When she sees it’s me, she softens around the mouth, and the sight kicks me behind the knees. Her eyes sweep over me, taking in the purple robe like it’s a statement I didn’t intend to make.
“You smell like breakfast,” she rasps.
“Eat.”
“You okay?” She sits up and reaches for the toast first, like a civilized person.
“Better.”
“Cool,” she says around a mouthful of bread. “Because last night, you looked like a drowned prince, and I was seconds away from dragging you out of the shower by your hair and mouth-to-mouthing you without your consent.”
“Would’ve been awkward.”
“Which part?”
“The hair pulling.”
“I’d have managed.” She sips coffee, considers the color, and nods. “You remember how I take it. That’s either sweet or creepy.”