Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Okay.” Her smile is so shy, peeking out playfully over the rim of her mug. “I can still tell you put a lot of time into it, crankyface. Instead of just grabbing a cheap glass sheet and slapping it on there and calling it a day, you went the full mile. I appreciate it.”
Hiding a grin, I mark off a few more measurements, then stand back to take stock and make sure I’ve got enough wood to pull this off.
“Happy to help. Miss Lilah, you might want to scoot over a little. I’m gonna have to knock this whole staircase out and put in a new one, and I don’t want to get any splinters on those pretty legs of yours.”
Her eyes widen.
I don’t think it’s because I called her legs pretty.
She stares at me, vulnerability softening her face before she inches over a foot to the side, scooting herself with one hand while the other clutches her mug.
I snap my toolbox open and snag my hammer, but I’m still watching her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“No, it’s not that.” She shakes her head quickly. “It’s just... no one calls me Lilah but my mom. It startled me, that’s all.”
“If it bothers you, I’ll knock it off.”
“...I hate to say it, but Miss New York was kinda growing on me.” Her lips quirk up, but there’s something haunting her eyes. She looks down into her mug. “It’s not a bad thing, really.”
I don’t know what the hell to say to that.
So for once, I don’t say anything at all.
Fine by me.
Don’t mind being quiet here in the sun, stealing sips of strong black coffee with Lilah for company while I figure out the best place to knock the old boards loose.
I’m just not expecting her to break the silence with her voice soft and thoughtful.
“You were right, Lucas,” she says. “The woman in the picture, that’s my mother. The first time I ever saw her was in that picture when I was eighteen. That’s when the state finally unsealed my foster records so I could find out who my birth mom was.” She takes a shaky breath. “Her name is Mitsi. The state, they took me away from her when I was just a baby. So young I have no memories of her at all. They said she was unfit, living in poverty, and she didn’t even know who my father was. She begged to keep me. They said no. I’m surprised they let her put that photo in my file. It’s like it was just waiting for me until I was old enough.”
I look up and stare like a damn fool.
This time, my silence isn’t because I’m lost for words.
It’s out of respect for the precious thing she’s giving me right now.
This story.
This memory.
This need to know more.
To know more about what makes the wild, beautiful heart of Delilah Clarendon tick and razz up my whole world.
Her fingers tighten around her mug. She stares into it like she can see her future in that bitter brew.
“Those state people, maybe they were just doing their jobs, I get it. But they treated my mom like a throwaway. Someone they could just cut out of my life. And for the longest time, I wondered if my father did that, too. If he just used her and threw her away. If that’s what people do, because I felt like a throwaway kid.” She stops and sighs.
I nod slowly, urging her on.
“When I was younger, I was lonely. Mad at the world. I didn’t know anything about my mother’s side of things. And then the families I was stuck with... God.” She shakes her head. “I burned right through them. They tossed me away because I was too angry. Too restless. Too extra. I wasn’t the perfect little angel right out of the box, so I wasn’t worth the time to let me get used to them. They just sent me packing, right back to the foster center more times than I can count.”
Knife, meet heart.
Fuck this.
I drop my crowbar.
The goddamned stairs can wait.
I set the hammer back in my toolbox, stand, and sit next to her on the edge of the porch. Our arms almost touch.
I can’t erase old pains, no. Can’t make that shit go away when it’s already made her hurt.
But I can be here in the present and make sure she’s not alone.
Not while she’s opening her heart like a bleeding wound.
She lifts her head, looking up at me so sweetly.
There’s a tremor in her lips, a thickness in her voice.
“Maybe that’s why Emma gets to me so much, you know?” It’s like she’s pleading with me to understand. “Because somebody just up and threw her away, whether they know it or not. Whoever gave her the drugs that night. Whoever got her hooked on them in the first place. I dunno. So I want to hold on to her memory so she’s not just totally discarded. Just like I wanted to find my mother so bad so she wouldn’t be lost forever...”