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 don’t go into the kitchen and make him breakfast because I don’t even think he eats breakfast. The coffee pot is never used when I do crawl out of bed after he leaves the house, and I don’t tell him to have a good day. I don’t text him during the day. Ever.
I don’t do anything that would give us away.
And no, it’s not because I’m ashamed. I thought I’d feel a lot of guilt, but I don’t. It’s not because we’re so worried about giving ourselves away that we walk on eggshells. It’s just…I know I’m not Luke’s girlfriend, and I’m not his wife. I’m not not his girlfriend, but the word sounds hollow and silly. I feel like so much more and so much less that I don’t know what word to use. I hate labels and definitions, and so does Luke. What we’re doing can’t really be defined. I can’t just throw a few cheap words out there to describe my feelings, and I know Luke can’t either, so we don’t name it. For now, we don’t change what we’re doing. I’m there for him at night, and he’s there for me. During the day, I’m there for Shade, and when Luke is home, he’s there. It works.
Surprisingly, I’m happy, Luke seems happy, and Shade is happy. I don’t feel like we’re a family, but I feel like we know we all found something good.
And that is maybe why Luke turns to me in total shock when I burst into tears on the couch. He’s actually not playing games for once. He’s watching sports, which in my books is worse. Shade went to bed hours ago, and I was reading a book. We sat apart, as we always do, but not uncomfortably apart. The silence between us wasn’t strained, but rather, it was nice. We were doing our own thing but doing it together.
“What’s wrong?” Luke snatches the remote off the coffee table and flicks the TV off. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I sniffle and brush the hot tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. I’m more embarrassed than anything, so I hold up the book. “Stupid. It’s dumb, so don’t mind me. Just…this is…”
“You miss your parents, don’t you?”
I nod because my throat is all closed up and thick, and the tears are threatening to keep pouring on. I swipe at my cheeks again, and I’m not surprised to find them freshly wet. I was reading, and the book had some sappy, tender moments between a family, and I can’t say I would have found it particularly touching or engaging if I weren’t already thinking about my parents when I didn’t have time to keep my mind from going there. It’s been nearly a month, and every single day, I think about calling them. Yet, every single day, I don’t. When I was at boarding school, I still called them just about every other day.
Luke shifts on the couch. He’s not coming to hug me, though, or tuck me into his arms, but he does pass his phone over to me with a sorrowful look that says he knows all about loss and missing people. Usually, he tucks it away in his heart, and he never wears it on his face.
“Call them.”
“But I…”
“This isn’t your number. It’s mine. And it’s private anyway. They won’t be able to see who’s calling, so just call. You need to hear their voice. You need to just make small talk if you can’t talk about the other stuff.”
There’s something off about Luke’s expression now, something wary in his tone that I don’t quite understand. Maybe it’s just grief, or maybe he’s thinking about how we don’t always get the chance to tell the people who we love that we love them and how I should take it while I can. If something happened to my mom or dad, and I hadn’t talked to them after leaving the house, I would never forgive myself. Maybe that’s what he’s telling me with the wary glint in his eyes, his lips in a hard line.
My fingers close over the phone. It’s warm from being in Luke’s pocket. Yeah, it might have been pressed against his butt, but he has a nice butt, and it still makes me shiver when I take it.
“I’ll just go outside for a few minutes if that’s okay?”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry. You don’t have to sit here and watch me watching you while you call.”
He’s attempting to be funny, but there’s something wrong, I can tell. Maybe he had a long day, or maybe he doesn’t know what to do with me when I cry. Some people find tears really uncomfortable, so I make a note to break my rule about not talking about our personal lives and make a plan to ask him what might be wrong when I get back.