Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
I saved myself.
I learned to live with myself.
But I guess some small, wounded part of me still never stopped being that dumb little girl who falls for the worst men.
And it’s that little girl inside me wailing now as I curl up in my room and unleash all the awful feelings building up inside me ever since I bolted away from Micah’s house yesterday.
I haven’t slept all night.
I’ve just been crying myself dry, slipping into a daze, then finding more tears from the darkest places.
I know it’s past time to get up.
It’s morning and Grandpa’s already moving around, the smell of rich coffee permeating the loft, mingled with the sawdust scent from downstairs.
I can already hear the lathe going.
I need to get my butt moving and stop grieving.
Finalize some sketches. Help Grandpa with his latest furniture piece, then go right to the bank to cash Xavier’s check.
Just like chronic asthma, life goes on with a broken heart when there’s work to do.
At least this time, I didn’t lose my words.
I told Micah how I felt before I ran.
I spoke up.
I stood up and I didn’t back down.
And I didn’t let him pull this crap without knowing exactly how much he hurt me.
There’s some pride in that, and that’s what gets me moving.
There’s also enough coffee left in the pot when I drag myself into the kitchen. I pour myself a cup and snag one of the muffins left in a basket on the table.
I nibble at it while I go through the motions of getting cleaned up and changed into clean clothes.
Caffeine makes me functional enough by the time I head in to the workshop.
Through the door to the front of the shop, I think I see a flash of black and white go by, on the way to the station. Probably Micah’s patrol car.
My stomach twists before I look at Grandpa.
He's at his lathe again, still working on those bedposts he’s been shaping for the last week or more.
Nothing Gerald Grey makes is ever fast or easy. But everything is crafted with love and exquisite detail.
By the time he’s finished, he’s memorized every wood grain and tiny groove.
The expression on his face makes me smile.
Pure love, so utterly absorbed in his work as his fingers glide over the rotating wooden post and plies his tools with delicate care.
I adore my work.
I love working with him.
I just wish I could find that kind of love in everything I do.
Then maybe I’d never feel a need for another person’s love again.
I don’t know how he does it. Just sinks away from everything until there’s nothing but the wood, his tools, and a creative spark flaring.
It’s like existing in this sort of beautiful trance, and I settle on a stool with a fresh cup of coffee.
Instead of focusing on my own work or opening up the shop, I watch Grandpa work his magic.
It’s soothing.
There’s not a single sound except the spinning lathe as I focus on his hands.
They’re wrinkled, wizened, but so very steady. Some days they shake, and other days they’re so inflamed I can see the redness and swollen skin.
But today, they’re as steady as a man who’s twenty years younger.
I don’t know how long I watch him.
Long enough to soothe my soul, maybe, washing away the hurt and losing myself in the familiar warmth of this space.
I learned everything I know and love right here at his knee.
That love… it’s still enough for me, isn’t it?
I realize he’s breaking his trance when the lathe’s rhythmic whirring slowly stops. He sets his tools aside on his workbench and touches the bedpost gently.
His eyes are twinkling. He glances up over the fresh, pale wood at me, his thin lips creasing in a smile.
“Lily,” he whispers. My split second of morning peace dies in a single heartbeat. “How long have you been there?”
Normally, when he’s lost in time, he calls me Serena.
My mother’s name.
But Lily?
That’s my grandmother’s name.
Holy hell.
He’s farther gone than usual.
My throat closes up.
Everything hurts so much when I desperately want to stop hurting.
“Honey?” He’s up in an instant, crossing the room to pull me into his arms. “What’s wrong? Why are you upset? Did Serena call?”
Oh, no.
I can’t upset him.
But I’m struggling, my throat raw, and the tears are coming. I bury my face in his chest and sob wretchedly.
“No, no,” I say. “Serena didn’t call.”
I can’t tell him what’s actually wrong.
I can’t tell him my heart’s turned inside out, and I don’t know how I can ever trust anyone again. Not even him.
Not when the person I love most doesn’t even see me.
Has anyone ever seen me beyond the basket case of illnesses?
Did Micah?
The sobs won’t stop no matter how hard I try.
They just won’t, and even if I can’t tell Grandpa what’s wrong when he won’t understand his ‘wife’ talking about another man breaking her heart, there’s still comfort in his embrace and in the way he holds me.