Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 12408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 62(@200wpm)___ 50(@250wpm)___ 41(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 12408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 62(@200wpm)___ 50(@250wpm)___ 41(@300wpm)
Luna turns toward me, her chin quivering, more tears sliding down her cheeks. “I just came in because I wanted to tell you—I wanted to say—”
I wait, holding my breath. I’ll listen to whatever she wants to tell me. I’ll tell her I’m sorry for being a prick. I’ll tell her it wasn’t her fault that I couldn’t sleep, even if it was. I’ll say whatever I can to make her feel better. I hate seeing her like this.
“I can’t,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
Then she rushes out of the store without a backward glance. The shop door closes hard behind her, leaving me and Brian in a quiet, empty store.
“Oh, man,” Brian says. “What happened to her?”
LUNA
That did not work out how I wanted it to.
I walk away from Parker’s store with tears streaming down my face too fast to stop, but I force myself to keep walking. I can’t break down on the sidewalk in the middle of town. I don’t need everyone knowing that I’m still a mess and can’t even walk into an art gallery without bursting into tears.
My hands are trembling with the vision of my mother still very clear in my mind. It was more of a shock, I think.
Still, I keep walking. I got up this morning determined to try again on Anne’s advice. While I got dressed, I decided that trying again meant clearing the air after the discussion we had on the beach. Maybe even apologizing for how I stormed off, and apologize again for the party.
I should’ve kept other people in mind when my friends were blasting music all night. But the plan was to work up to that. The plan was to be honest without telling Parker all the details and start over again.
And then he had that sketch of my mom, and it just knocked the wind out of me. My throat gets tight and fresh tears threaten at the memory of simply looking down, the words I’m sorry on my lips and there she was.
Maybe that’s because I’ve felt like I’m the only one who remembers her. Like I’m the only one who ever knew her when she was alive. Like she never made an impression on the rest of the world, so I’m the only one who knows what we lost when she died. We didn't have family outside of each other. It was a small funeral and everyone else has simply moved on. I don’t know how.
I know I’m not the only one who remembers her. I might not even be the only one who misses her every day. She was my mom though and I was her only daughter. And it hurts. I can’t make it stop hurting.
I slow my pace and breathe, then breathe some more, then finally get to the condo.
Inside, the tears don’t fully dry up, but they stop enough for me to catch my breath completely. I fill up the bathtub and soak in the hot water until I can bring myself to get dressed again, then make myself a cup of tea and sit down on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
This is why I came to this town, isn’t it? At least a little bit. I came here because I have memories with my mom here. Because she had memories of this town and the time we spent here when she was alive. Because I thought it would remind me of her…while also not reminding me of her. Or while mostly reminding me of the beautiful days we had and not the fact that we’ll never have a day together again.
Parker captured one of those moments worth remembering. I don’t even have a photo of her like that on the beach, but he painted her. With sleep dragging me under all I can think is that I don’t know how I’m going to be able to see Parker face to face. Next time a letter will have to do and then I’m hiding from him from here on out.
The next day, when I’m shopping for groceries, I spy something on the shelf and pick it up for him, then spend an hour at home afterward agonizing over the note I write to him. Present on table, pen in hand, I scribble out an explanation and then crumple up paper after paper and toss it in the trash. I try to keep it simple and not ramble, but my emotions aren't simple and I don’t know how to separate them from the apology.
Knock, knock. Someone knocks at the door before I can finish. With a heavy sigh, I put the pen down and assume it’s going to be a package delivered.
“Coming,” I call, leaving the note on the coffee table and hurrying for the condo door. My sheer sweater sleeves sway by my wrists and my jean shorts are cut off mid thigh. At least I’m not in pajamas. I peek through the peephole and barely manage to stop myself from gasping. Parker’s on the other side. Parker came here.