Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Dad: At least let me know you're ok.
I shake my head. He decided to text instead of constantly calling. If he’s willing to do that after years of scowling when I’ve tried to convince him he’ll get a hold of me a lot faster if he texts, that means he’s desperate to hear from me and because I'm not a totally heartless person, I respond right away.
Me: I'm fine. I hope you are, too.
Hopefully, he understands that even if I texted him back, it doesn't mean I'm ready to come home. Going home is a terrible idea, but something I’ll face eventually. All we'll end up doing is rehashing the same argument, and I don't know how long I could go without throwing his lies in his face. I don't want to hurt him, even as I might not be able to control myself in the heat of the moment.
Before getting out of bed, I roll over and press my nose to Callum's pillow. It smells like him, and I smile. It doesn't make me a total weirdo to smell his pillow, does it? If so, I don't care. It's such a joy being with him and allowing myself to be happy. I only wish there wasn't this nagging sense that it would all disappear. My happiness always does.
Now. That is not what today is about. I can’t let myself get all dark and twisty—life gives me enough of a reason to do that as it is. Before heading to Tatum's rooms, I stop in the sun-filled kitchen for something to eat. Sheryl smiles before waving me in for a vanilla-scented hug.
“It's good to have you back.”
“It's nice to be back. And thank you so much for the muffins yesterday. I might’ve missed them more than anything else.”
“I have some more ready and waiting for you.” In fact, there’s a breadbasket sitting on the granite countertop that she was in the middle of placing muffins inside when I came in. “I've added a few for Miss Tatum, along with a pot of peppermint tea that I was going to take to her.”
“Peppermint tea?” She’s usually more the matcha latte type. “Is she sick?”
Sheryl pats her lower belly and winces. “She's feeling rather miserable. I normally brew her a pot on her first day.”
Oh! I wince, as well. “Makes sense. I can take this to her room for you. I was already headed there anyway.”
“Thank you, and be sure to come back for lunch if you're staying the day. I have some delicious pears and cheese I was going to add to a salad.”
“If I wasn't already going to stay, I would now that I know what's for lunch.”
Her soft chuckle follows me out of the room. She's such a sweet lady and reminds me greatly of what I've missed all these years without Mom. Just having a woman in the house makes a world of difference. Not that Dad didn't do his best, there are just certain things only a woman understands. Like how a girl wants chocolate muffins and peppermint tea when she starts her period and feels miserable. There's the warmth I’ve missed, too, a feeling of being nurtured.
I can finally put my finger on it, all because a kind cook showed me her maternal nature. Dad was always there for me in his own way, but there wasn't that warmth. He was the rule maker, his word was law, and while I could always go to him with my problems, his solutions usually involved wanting to get in the middle of things and solve them himself.
He wasn't equipped to simply pull me into his lap for a hug, stroke my hair or ask if I wanted to go to a movie and get some ice cream. I can't believe that Callum would ever take that from me, or from any kid for that matter. I know him well enough to know how he operates.
He always knows exactly what he's getting into—he researches, he plans, and he would undoubtedly know my mom had a child at home. He had a daughter my age when I was eight years old. He wouldn't take a mother from a little girl his own daughter's age. I am unable to believe it otherwise. Not only because I don't want to, but because that’s just not the man he is.
Once I reach Tatum's wing, the sound of screams makes me trot with the tray balanced precariously. Only when I reach her room do I realize she's in bed watching a horror movie on her laptop.
“I would ask you how you're feeling, but I guess I have a pretty good idea.” All I can do is offer a sympathetic frown as I set the tray down on the bed, then climb in next to her without asking. When you've been friends as long as we have, you don't have to ask.