Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
I love Palmer Clark, and that’s why I don’t have a choice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PALMER
Keep going. Put one foot in front of the other.
I take a deep breath and plaster on a smile that doesn’t read truthfully. It doesn’t feel bright or happy, and my face is still swollen from crying myself to sleep. But hopefully it comes across to Ethan like I’m fine. Like everything is going to be fine.
Even if my heart might not be.
“Hey,” I say, poking my head in his room. “Are you about ready?”
He looks over his shoulder with his gaming controller in his hand. Sandbox’s mom dropped him off earlier this morning, and he went straight to his room. No retelling of the night’s events, no request for chocolate chip pancakes. No anything except a smile that probably mirrors the one I’m giving him now.
“For what?” he asks.
“For practice.”
He furrows his brows. “It’s Saturday. We don’t practice on Saturdays.”
“Ted sent a group text this morning and asked everyone to be at the field at two this afternoon.”
Ethan’s face falls. “Tell him I’m sick.” He turns back to his game.
I sag against the wall, defeated.
Every bone in my body aches. Every muscle yells for me to go back to bed. My head throbs and my chest burns, and fighting with Ethan over baseball, of all things, isn’t what I want to do today.
But, then again, I don’t want to do anything.
All I want to do is erase the last twenty-four hours of my life. I want to climb back into bed and close my eyes and pretend that Charlotte isn’t sick and that Kirk won’t lose the love of his life. That my—our—home, Bloomfield, might not be in jeopardy.
I want to pretend that Cole thinks enough of me to stay and that he’ll be back through the door in a few minutes. And tonight, when I go to sleep, Cole will be beside me. Loving me.
I want to feel safe, like I did with him. I desperately need his smile to get me through this shit at work. I wish for the hope that he brought me, the light he shone on my life—the way things felt possible. Like there was something to look forward to.
Like there was something in this life just for me.
My eyes fill with tears as I look at Ethan, and I feel my heart break again for him. I want so badly to give him more, to be more for him, to attempt to fix all the things I’ve fucked up. But I can’t, and whenever I try, things get worse.
Cole wasn’t supposed to make them worse.
I stand straight and take a breath. The show must go on.
“You aren’t sick,” I say, my voice clearer than before.
“So?”
“Ethan . . .” I sigh. “Please turn off your game and look at me.”
I think he’s going to argue. For a moment, I think he’s going to pitch a preteen fit and tell me no. But he doesn’t.
He hits a few buttons on his remote, and then the screen goes dark. Slowly, he spins his chair around and faces me.
“What?” he asks.
We look at each other. How deep does our sorrow go? I know mine is bottomless—I’m certain that I’ll never have someone in my life like Cole again because I’m certain he’s a one-of-a-kind man—but I hope Ethan’s isn’t. He’s resilient. Kids bounce back. But when I peer into his little green eyes, I see a grief that I know far too well.
What kills me is how easily he’s accepted being let down. It’s like he expected Cole to leave.
That’s not what I want for you, sweet boy. You deserve so much more than this.
“This sucks,” I say, the words wobbling. “I know it sucks and I’m sorry. But we’re gonna be okay.”
“I know we are. We’re always okay.”
“I’m glad you know that.” But I also hate that you’ve had so many experiences that have made you know that.
He lifts his chin in defiance. “We are okay, but this isn’t okay.”
“Yes, it is. Cole has a whole life in California, and he had to—”
“Stop it!” Ethan gets to his feet. His hands are balled up at his sides. “Stop making excuses for him.”
“I’m not,” I say, carefully. “I’m explaining to you—”
“You are! You’re trying to make it sound like it’s fine that he left us, Mom, and it’s not. If it makes you feel better to pretend like he had something more important to do than me and you, then fine. Tell yourself that. But it’s a lie.”
Tears fill his eyes. His face turns a bright shade of red as he wars against his emotions. The sight of him hurt and vulnerable slices me open.
I reach for him to hug him, to give him some kind of physical reminder that I’m still here, but he doesn’t budge.