Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I’d trade everything in my life to have Britt back for a day. Not Shade, obviously, but everything else. The house, the money, the company, all of it. Just for one day.
I always told her I loved her, even before she got sick. I always made sure she knew she was my entire world—both her and Shade when he came along. I have no regrets about that. She was scared when she died—scared to leave me, scared to leave Shade. She wanted to live so badly because she had us to live for. One day wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. All the time in the world couldn’t be enough. That’s annoyingly cliché, and it makes me think of all the other things. About the gaping hole in my heart, about how I struggle to find meaning in my life even though I now have just about everything, about how I know I’ll never find anyone like Britt, and I’ll never want to because I’ve walked around with the pain of losing her for over two years now. Everyone talks about that. Or maybe they don’t, but people know. I know it sounds stupid to those who have never lost anyone they cherish, and also for me to say I wish it was me and not her, but those are things everyone says. Everyone knows.
I just feel like they don’t really know. They can’t have any idea.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?” My fork goes careening across the plate of salad, making a horribly sharp noise.
I look at Shade, but I can see Feeney looking at me. She’s staring at me in the kind of way that would make anyone squirm because it’s very direct and knowing. Like she can see straight into my heart, mind, soul—all the places I’d like to keep locked up—my own secret vault.
I’m for sure adding that to the negative side of the list—her knowing look.
“Do flies really eat poop?”
Feeney snorts and covers her mouth. She doesn’t tell Shade we’re eating and to not talk about poop while we’re eating. She also doesn’t act like poop is the world’s worst dinner table topic. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all, which makes me like her more. I don’t have a block of ice in my heart, and I’m done with clichés. I most certainly have a heart, and it’s warm and gooey, just like everyone else’s. It’s alive, human, and filled to the brim with emotion. I’m not against liking her because liking her is a bonus. Liking her helps. It’s everything else that I can’t stand.
“Yes,” I stab a huge piece of tomato onto my fork. I don’t like them either, but these ones are surprisingly delicious. “They really do.”
CHAPTER 8
Feeney
I know it’s probably totally taboo, and I shouldn’t stick my nose in it, but I can’t help it. It’s eight days until Christmas, and the house is totally barren. Not a single decoration in sight. Not even a mention. Maybe Luke finds Christmas triggering. Maybe he doesn’t like it because it reminds him of loss. Maybe this, maybe that. He still has a four-year-old son that I know he would do anything for, so I decided to take a chance and ask Shade how he feels.
We’re eating breakfast—pancakes I managed not to burn, with the added bonus of a whole bunch of cut-up fruit on top—when I just go for it.
“Do you like Christmas, Shade?”
“Yup!” He nods with a mouthful of pancake. His cheeks are bulging like a hamster even though I cut the pancakes into small pieces. It’s not my fault that he shoves five pieces in at one time.
“Do you ever put up a tree or decorate the house?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“No. But we do go to grandpa’s, and he has a tree.”
“Your grandpa?” Right. Of course he has a grandpa.
“Yeah. And the other grandma and grandpa. They don’t like to have me over, though, because it makes them sad. I know they miss my mom, and they always say I look like her.”
“No! That’s not true. That’s not why they don’t like to have you over.”
“It is. Dad told me.”
“Jesus.”
“Dad says not to say that. Or god. It’s bad.”
“Sorry. I mean, pickles with dipping sauce. Is that better?”
“It’s funny.”
“Good.” I’m quiet for a while. I eat half of my pancake before I try again. “Are you…do you ever go over to their house? Are they mean to you?”
“They’re not mean. They’re just sad. That’s what Dad says. I mostly don’t remember my mom. I can remember a few things like her reading to me, giving me a bath, and taking me for a walk. I also remember her in the hospital before she went to heaven. She told me not to be sad and said I’d have a good life, and that one day, she’d see me again.”