Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
And then it all made sense. Yes, he’s been a bit hostile. Thanks for letting me know.
Thank you for loving my son unconditionally, Emerson. Cleo and I appreciate it.
He was the one who loved me unconditionally, but I didn’t say that.
I finished up at the office then drove to the lab, where he worked alone because Jerome and Pierre had left for the day. With my purse over my shoulder, I walked to his table, watching him look up at me with that same combative look.
He spoke before I said anything. “I’m gonna stay longer. You can take off.”
I set my purse on the counter then took a seat across from him.
He sighed loudly like he knew what was coming. “I’m sorry I’m being an ass, baby. I just…” He rubbed the scruff along his jaw as he stared down at his notebook. “It’s one of those days.”
“You only have one of these days for a reason, Derek.”
“I love you, but I don’t have to share every little thing with you.” He got back to work like I wasn’t there.
“Why don’t you want to share every little thing with me?”
He stared at the paper, but it was obvious he wasn’t absorbing anything he looked at. “Do you share every little thing with me?”
“Yes.”
He straightened on his stool then gave a loud sigh, like he was irritated.
I waited for him to tell me on his own.
But all I got was silence—brooding and irritating silence.
So, I laid down my cards. “Your dad texted me…and told me what day it is.”
His eyes immediately shifted back to me, clearly surprised by what I’d said.
“I’m here. If you want to talk about it.”
He closed his eyes for a moment then looked away, still shutting me out. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t help but be in a bad mood because of it, so I can’t hide it.”
“Why don’t you want to talk about it?” I felt like Derek and I had made a lot of progress, even with his friend that he didn’t want to see, but he still shut me out violently and I didn’t understand why. And by far, he was worse today than he’d ever been, as if we hadn’t just spent Thanksgiving together a few weeks ago.
He turned quiet, bowing his head in silence. “It’s hard. I have a lot of regrets about my mother, and every year I feel like shit. And talking about it makes me feel like shit all over again, and I just don’t want to go through it over and over.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it. But I’m just surprised you wouldn’t just tell me why you’re upset, like you did with that old friend of yours.”
“I don’t know, honestly. This is just…different.” He glanced away, not looking at me, not connecting with me at all.
I stared at him, feeling the pain because he was in pain.
“It’s weighed me down for as long as I can remember. I’m in my thirties now, and I still can’t shake it.”
“How did she pass away?”
He was quiet for a long time. “It was unexpected. A heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
He was still, barely breathing. “We hadn’t spoken in a long time. She pretty much just forgot about me. One night, I was in a really dark place, and I called her out of the blue…got her voice mail…and I just ripped into her. I didn’t intend to do that, but my dad always answers when I call, even if it’s three in the morning. And the fact that she didn’t take that call made me lose my shit. I said a lot of really harsh things to her, screamed into her voice mail, said she was a terrible person and I hated her.” His breathing increased as he sat there in silence, reliving the memory. “The next day…she had a heart attack.”
I closed my eyes and felt the pain hit me hard.
“It was because of me—I know it was. She woke up, listened to that voice mail, and…that was it.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him.
His eyes had a thin film of moisture, of unshed tears that he refused to release. His breathing gently slowed, his features gradually recovering from the pain that had just hit him hard. When he blinked, the moisture was gone, absorbed inside his chest.
“You have no idea if it was because—”
“It was. Her husband said she listened to it before she collapsed.”
Jesus. “Derek—”
“This is why I don’t talk about this shit.” He turned back to me, vicious once more. “Do I look like I feel better? No, I feel fucking worse.” He dropped his chin and looked at his notebook again. “Just go. I’ll talk to you later.”
25
Derek
I sat at the dining table with my glass of scotch next to my computer, looking at all the schematics and models I had for the rocket. The project was completed, and it was literally days away from being launched, so there was nothing I could do at this point, but I checked anyway.