Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 149606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 499(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 499(@300wpm)
Here, it’s only me, her, and the chirping crickets outside.
I roll over onto my side to face her, and she stares back at me with her big green eyes in the dim light, her breathing soft and incredibly familiar.
We used to sleep this way a lot—facing each other. Only back then, she’d rest her face against my chest, right over my heart, and we’d wrap our arms around each other.
A love burrito, she used to call it.
“You won’t leave after I fall asleep?” she asks.
“No.” I touch her hand that’s curled under her chin, sliding my finger into the space between her thumb and forefinger. Her fingers tighten around mine, holding on to me.
We used to sleep this way too. When she was pregnant and we couldn’t sleep with our bodies mashed against each other, she’d hold on to my finger while she slept, teasing me that I couldn’t run away.
“I’ll be right here, I promise,” I whisper. “I’m not gonna run away.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Every morning after I shower, I go out on the master bedroom balcony to clear my head before I start the day. I wouldn’t call it meditation, but I like to breathe in the fresh air, watch the sun come up, and tell myself that every day is a new day for anything to happen.
Each day, I hoped it would be the day that Ember would wake up.
Then that day finally came.
Now I’m watching Ember in our backyard with Sarah. She moves slow and unsteady, leaning on her cane, but she’s smiling and pointing to the butterflies flitting around the garden.
Right before she came home, I hired a local butterfly guru to come to the house and create a butterfly garden. He brought his own hand-raised butterflies, and planted special flowers and bushes to create a tiny winged world just for Ember.
I wish I could stand here on the balcony and watch her all day. When she’s happy and smiling like she is now, it’s like witnessing a miracle. But it’s also like having something incredibly fragile, like a newborn baby or an expensive crystal vase. Afraid to touch it, constantly worrying if it’ll get broken, checking on it all the time to make sure it’s still whole.
Last night, I barely slept while next to her in bed. I wanted to savor every single second of being so close to her, listening to her breathe, feeling her warmth. As excited as I was, the fears crept in. The fear that her wanting me close to her was just a one-time thing. The fear that she might not wake up.
And the ultimate black cloud—that she might not ever remember our past.
As much as I want to focus on all the good things and live in the moment, hope and fear have dominated my mind for so long, I still find myself being hijacked by those thoughts.
I guess in some ways, Ember and I are both learning how to live again.
“This was your all-time favorite tea.” I hand her the warm, ceramic mug and sit next to her on the couch. Sarah’s gone to her suite for the night, and Ember chose to sit on the porch with a book.
She doesn’t know it, but it’s what she used to do almost every night.
Cupping the mug in both hands, she raises it to her lips and smiles after tasting it.
“Wow. I didn’t have anything like this in the hospital. I like it.”
“You had it in a café once and went crazy over it, so I found out what was in it and started making it for you. It’s called a London fog tea latte.”
She sips more, and a thin mustache of frothy milk lines her upper lip. It takes all my willpower not to lean across the couch and kiss it away.
“It’s creamy and sweet. What’s in it?”
“Earl grey tea, a touch of lavender, vanilla, a pinch of brown sugar, and frothed skim milk.”
She shakes her head and looks down at the tea with a shy smile. “You’re very thoughtful. And…bizarre,” she says.
“How so?”
“Because you’re sitting there with all that long hair, tattoos everywhere, that deep voice, and you’re talking about lavender and frothing milk.”
I grin and shrug. “I’m like an Oreo cookie. Hard on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside.”
She laughs into her tea, almost spilling it. “I don’t think anyone would compare you to a cookie.”
Actually, she did. A long time ago on a tour bus somewhere in Colorado in the middle of the night over cookies and cold milk.
Still cradling the mug, she looks me over, her gaze resting on the skeleton key necklace. “You always have that on. It looks old. Sorta rusty.”
My heart jumps. I’ve been wondering if the skeleton key would ever catch her attention. “It is old.”
“What does it open?”
“Something special.” I chew the inside of my cheek, contemplating. “I want to show you some things of yours in our bedroom. I think they’ll help you.”