Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Sighing, I force myself to sit up, glancing back at the swing that sways slightly under the giant pergola thanks to the morning draft Oceanside has to offer, even in July. It’s an old, wooden two-seater with lights twining up the chain securing it to the thick beams above—a gift for Lolli from her man. It’s deep and meaningful and theirs, a tangible item of love.
Jealousy whirls through me like a tidal wave, knocking me in the chest and thieving the air from my lungs. She gets to share the most meaningful thing in her life.
I don’t.
I should be happy about that. I have one of the greatest gifts love could ever offer all to myself, a perfectly healthy baby boy, and in some twisted ways only a girl raised by a vicious mother could reason, I am. But that’s the scared, selfish part of me. The part that doesn’t want the cruel world to touch the innocence I can protect if it’s me and me alone, but the reality of it all is I don’t want to. My choice was taken from me in the blink of an eye, and I’m supposed to deal.
I have no choice but to deal.
My eyes fall to the screen of the monitor in my hand, and I smile at the little man who’s sound asleep in his crib, the little plush football tucked under his arm like he was born to hold it.
He wasn’t. His daddy was a wrestler, not a football player, but he’ll never get to tell him about that or teach him his favorite moves.
Deaton will never even get to hear his daddy’s voice.
Tears fill my eyes instantly, and I close them, letting the hot streaks warm my cheeks, the wind quickly turning the heat to a chill, but I don’t swipe them away.
I welcome the guilt that flows through me, the pain and anger and longing. The regret.
The love for the boy who isn’t here anymore is still there, heavy in my heart, as broken and bruised as it is.
A soft click sounds, and my eyes open, falling back on the monitor, and my pulse jumps into my throat in anticipation.
The door to my son’s bedroom opens ever so slowly, and he slips right inside.
I stare with trembling lips as Mason steps up to the edge of the old crib, peeking in on Deaton with an expression so tender it can’t be mistaken for anything but adoration, but when he reaches out, his hand so large it nearly hides all those dark curls as he gently glides his palm along them, his eyes close on a slow, painful blink. His head hangs the slightest bit, and a choked sob escapes me, the heaviness in my heart doubling in size, the weight of another hovering just above the gaping hole Deaton’s death left behind. It presses there like a needle to the skin, eager to slip right through. To break the surface and burrow deeper than it already has.
I can’t let it in.
I can’t let him in.
As if you have a say.
As if it’s not too late…
Eyes locked on the video monitor, I try not to cry as he reaches into the crib, gently taking Deaton’s tiny hand in his large one. He stares down at my sleeping baby boy with the softest yet saddest of smiles written on his lips.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m scared, little man,” he whispers. “Your mama’s avoiding me, and I have no idea what to do about it.”
He goes quiet for a moment, and I struggle to breathe, staring at my son’s hand as it opens, his tiny fingers wrapping around Mason’s thumb.
Mason’s lips spread into a wide grin, a soft, quiet chuckle slipping free. “This your way of telling me you won’t let me go?”
A knot forms in my throat, and I lock my hand around my neck.
Suddenly, Mason’s face falls, and he bends, his forehead now resting on the edge of the crib. “Please don’t let me go.”
Gasping, I cut the camera off. I can’t listen anymore. Can’t watch.
I sit there in the sand for a while longer before I dare to turn the monitor back on. My muscles ease when I find no one but my sleeping baby on the screen.
Closing my eyes, I push to my feet, pulling in a lungful of salty air.
I’ve worn many masks over the years, something my mother demanded in her pursuit for a perfect daughter. It will be no different from that…and no different from the one I’ve worn on and off for almost a year now.
But he saw through that mask.
I wince, glancing up over the small sand hill to the large bay window at the back of my brother’s home. My home.
All our friends and their families will be in one spot today. It’s a whole-ass affair that just a few days ago I was looking forward to. Now I wish I didn’t have a part in the decision to make our house the main point instead of saying we should do it at Mason and the others’ place down the beach. That way, I could make an excuse and stay behind. I can’t do that now.