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)
I glance around at the kids digging into sandwiches, a warm feeling settling in. It’s moments like this that remind me why this charity matters—why Asher and my brother are launching it. For sports, but also for support. But then a small tug on my sleeve pulls me from my thoughts.
Another girl, about ten, stands by my side. “Do you know where the restrooms are?”
“Sure, I’ll show you, Lia,” I say, reading her name tag, then walking her toward the facilities. She’s unusually quiet on the way, her eyes downcast.
On the way back, she suddenly blurts out, “I miss my dad. He died last year.”
My breath catches. I crouch down beside her, unsure of what to say at first, but the look in her eyes tells me she just needs someone to understand. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “I lost someone important too—my mom and my dad. And you know what? Sometimes I still miss them.”
“You do?” she asks, her voice small.
“Ten years later, I really do.”
“Does it ever stop hurting?”
I pause, thinking about how to answer her. “Yes. But sometimes that hurt comes back out of the blue. When you aren’t expecting it. And it wallops you. But you know what?”
“What?” she asks, eager for an answer.
“The love stays. That part never goes away.”
Lia looks at me, blinking back tears, but straightens her shoulders like she’s trying to be strong. “I feel it sometimes—the love.”
I nod, smiling softly, my throat tightening as I feel that swelling in my heart—that love I believe my mom left for me. When she passed on to the next life, I believe she gave me all that was left in her heart. “Good. Hold onto that. It’s what makes us who we are. It’s a gift, really, to have that much love inside you.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m too much sometimes—because I have all this love in me with nowhere to go. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing if I can help others unexpectedly, especially in moments like this. I squeeze her hand gently. “And thanks for sharing. It’s good to talk things through.”
She gives me a tiny nod. “I try to stay tough,” she whispers.
“You are tough,” I tell her. “But you don’t always have to be. If you ever want to talk to someone, that’s okay too.”
“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully. “Sometimes I just like to play soccer though.”
“I get that,” I say with a smile. “We all work things out differently. I do it through painting.”
We walk back, the moment settling into my bones. I’ve been where she is—trying to be tough, trying to hold onto something that feels like it’s slipping away. Sometimes, maybe all the time, holding too hard. But maybe holding too hard isn’t a bad thing if you can help others with it.
When we return to the picnic tables, Lia heads off to talk to a counselor, and Asher finds me and introduces me to a few families. We chat with some board members from the dinner—Marcus, the sports psychologist is here, as well as Terrence, the retired football coach, and Lydia, one of the big donors.
“Are you still folding swan napkins?” Marcus asks.
“I’m working on a whole series now,” I say, appreciating that he called them swans, even though they were fans.
“Maybe we can add that to the sports camps. Competitive napkin-folding,” Lydia says.
“I’ll teach it,” I offer.
Asher smiles fondly. “You’d be great at that.”
And optics or not, I can tell one thing—he likes having me here. And that’s reason enough. “I would be good,” I say, feeling his confidence in me, but also this newfound confidence in myself.
My brother swings by and pats me on the back, teasing, “Going great, huh? It’s the optics, right?”
“That’s me. I’m magic when it comes to optics,” I say.
He smiles, but then his smile fades and he tips his forehead toward the water, a sign for us to step away from the crowd. I walk with him toward the edge of the picnic grounds. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just want to see how everything’s going with the whole…thing,” he says in a low voice.
“It’s great,” I say, meaning it completely.
“Yeah?” It’s asked like he doesn’t believe me.
“Beckett, I swear it is,” I add.
He blows out a breath, then nods a few times. “Okay. I can’t help looking out for you.”
“It’s the big brother gene,” I say, but there’s affection in my tone.
“Guilty as charged.” He sighs and looks toward Asher, who’s chatting one on one with Marcus now. My brother returns his focus to me. “Anyway, so it’s working out. You’re getting lots of new gigs, right?”
“I am, but it’s not because of the marriage,” I say, believing it for one of the first times. Maybe there’s more interest in me now, but these days it feels like the interest is in Maeve Hartley, the artist who’s working on the Sea Dogs mural, rather than in Mrs. Callahan. I square my shoulders, something like pride filling my chest. “I started a new line of mirrors. And Angelina already heard from a couple local shops that might want to carry them,” I say, sharing the latest news with him. I sent her some pics of the Love Lessons mirrors last week, and she made some calls, and quickly found some stores that like to carry local artists’ work.