Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
There’s a twinge in my chest, one I’ve felt before when we’ve talked about them. I can’t imagine what she went through. It’s my worst fear—losing the people I love. I’ve asked her this before—of course I have—but I ask again anyway. “Do you miss them a lot?”
“I do,” she admits quietly. “Especially in moments like this, when everything feels so…cozy, you know? I’m really glad I had tonight, but yeah—sometimes I just wish they were here to do these normal things too. See a game. Have dinner.” There’s a pause, then she swallows roughly, almost choking out the next words. “See my mirrors. Check out the mural.” She draws a steadying breath. “Isn’t that selfish?”
I reach for her shoulders, cupping them, rubbing them. “Are you kidding me? No. I love when my dads see me play. Of course you wish your parents could see your work. You put so much into your art, and they’d be so proud of you.” I never met them, but I know this deep in my bones. They’d be so amazed by the woman she became.
“You think so?”
“I know so,” I say with utter confidence. “Your mom wanted you to follow your dreams. You did follow them. You still do. You keep doing it. Every single day.”
“She wanted that for me, you know?” she says softly, then her brow knits again. “That book of hers?”
“If Found, Please Return?” I ask, thinking of the one on the nightstand.
“Sometimes I read passages again, looking for a message from her.” She sighs, closing her eyes, maybe ashamed. “That is why sometimes I think I hold on too tight.” She opens her eyes, and those hazel irises are etched with such vulnerability that my heart slams harder against my chest. “Isn’t that silly?”
I ache for her. “No. I think it’s normal to want to find that connection. Even now. Even when they’re gone. You want to feel like they’re still talking to you.”
“I really do,” she says. She pauses, biting her lip, as if weighing her next words. Then, with a nervous laugh, she asks, “Was that too much to tell you? About missing them? About the book?”
Scoffing, I shake my head immediately. “No. Not at all. I want to know. I want to know everything you want to share.” My voice is firmer now, certain. “And I’d feel the same way.”
“You would?”
“I would. I’d look for signs too, Maeve,” I say then take a moment to collect my thoughts. I want to say the right thing. “I’d want…I don’t know, a sense that they aren’t forgotten. I kind of do that now, maybe preemptively. Maybe that’s why I hunt out luck—good luck charms, stepping right foot first onto a plane. Maybe I do that because I want signs somehow that I’ll keep this luck. I’ve done that ever since Nora died.”
“Do you feel lucky? Like it could have been you? That you weren’t riding with her?”
I’ve never been a bike rider, so no, I didn’t join her for that training ride. But I’m acutely aware that things can change in a split second. Someone can be here today and gone the next second. “No. But losing a friend—someone I wanted to stay friends with—made me want to hold onto…what I have.” But perhaps, it’s deeper than that. Maybe it goes further back. This sense of holding onto what I have. Because I don’t actively miss Nora. But I do feel that too-familiar heaviness of loss at times. I venture on, stepping into territory I rarely visit. “When I was fourteen, I thought John was going to die.” The words come out quietly, almost cautiously, and I realize I’ve never told her this before.
“Asher,” she says softly, reaching for me, her hands on my arms. “What happened?”
“He had this health scare. Well, he’d been having a lot of them. But this time was worse. One day after hockey practice, he wasn’t just dizzy or faint. He was having heart palpitations. Like, this really uneven and way-too-fast heartbeat. His breath was short; he complained of chest pain. It happened while he was driving so he swerved, but managed to pull over and I could have called 911. But I didn’t even think there was time to wait. I had to drive him to the hospital. It was just the two of us…”
I was never afraid of getting hurt playing hockey. But I was devastated when I thought I was the difference between my father’s life and death. That drive is indelibly etched in my mind. The way my heart seized up too, but I had to ignore my fear and somehow get him to the emergency room. There was no time to waste.
“You didn’t even have a license,” she says softly.
“I knew how to drive, though,” I admit.
“You did?”
“I had to. There were times beforehand when he was dizzy. Sick. Faint. Before he was diagnosed. For maybe a year on and off. So I learned early. I had no choice.”