Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
He scoffs like he’s embarrassed at being caught for being nice. It makes me laugh.
“I’m just saying maybe you don’t totally understand her,” I say. “So some of what she does looks like it’s coming out of left field when maybe it’s not.”
“Yeah, well, left field would be better than outer space.”
My smile grows.
I’m sure I was a handful for my mom when she was a single mother. Although we could get on the same page, she was still my mother, and I was still a bratty teenager. We butted heads. Even so, she could come at our issues from a place of understanding.
We get to the top of the stairs and stop. There is a door to the left, one in front of us, and a hallway to the right. Pictures adorn the walls—most of Kennedy at various stages of her life. A little table sits next to the hallway with an oddly shaped vase on it.
“Were you this way with your dad?” he asks. “Did you fight him all the time? Make everything hard?”
My smile slips. “No.”
“Then what did he do differently because I’d like that kind of relationship with my hell-raiser.”
“Well,” I say, my thoughts going to a man I’ve not thought about in a while. “I guess the biggest reason we didn’t fight was that he wasn’t there.”
Chase furrows a brow.
“It’s hard to fight with someone who doesn’t know you exist,” I say.
He regrips the handles of my bags, studying me with a quiet intensity. I’m unsure if he wants me to elaborate—if he wants the messy details, or if he’s trying to determine how to get out of this conversation.
Probably the latter.
“Think of it that way,” I say, giving him an exit. “You might fight with her right now. But she’ll grow up and appreciate that she had a dad who cared enough about her to stick around.”
His lips twist into a semblance of a smile. “Right.” He tips his head toward the lone door on the left. “That’s my room. The one in front of you is a closet. Extra blankets, board games, candles because I swear every time Kennedy has an extra dollar to her name, she buys another damn candle.”
“Yeah, well, I relate.”
“Of course you do,” he mumbles, heading down the hallway. “The door on the right is Ken’s. The one at the end is the bathroom. You can get situated there. And this is your room.”
He pauses by the door on the left and flicks the handle.
We step inside the small but gracious bedroom. It smells faintly of cinnamon and has a window that overlooks the driveway. A small bed is covered with a blue-and-white quilt that looks like it was plucked out of an Amish store.
A wooden rocking chair sits in the corner, and a large dressing table with an oval mirror rounds out the furniture. The only other item of interest is an accordion door in the corner segregating the tiniest closet known to man and the rest of the room.
Chase places my bags on the floor next to the chair.
“This is the cutest little guest room,” I say, checking out a picture of a baby Kennedy on the table.
“No one ever uses it. Mom put fresh sheets and pillows on it this week, so you should be good to go.”
“I’ll be fine. I don’t need much to make me happy.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. The springs squeak with his weight. “Thank you for doing this.”
I stand across from him with my back to the mirror. The room is so tight that only a few feet separates us.
He folds his hands together, elbows resting on his knees, and leans forward. His eyes are bright and clear, and unlike every other time we’ve been this close, he doesn’t want to hide from me.
“Can I ask you a question?” I lace my fingers together in front of me. “If you don’t want me to, just say so.”
He shrugs. “Depends on what it is.”
“Where is Kennedy’s mom?”
He hangs his head for a long minute, and I’m not sure he will answer. I hold my breath, second-guessing my decision to prod into this area of his life, and start to change the subject. But before I can take back my question, he speaks.
“Monica, that was her name …” He looks up at me. “She’s gone.”
“Oh.”
“She died when Kennedy was four,” he says.
“Oh.”
His tone is void of feelings, but his eyes tell a different story. There’s pain there—sadness. There’s a pit of emotion that I’m unsure how to handle.
Suddenly, I want to wrap my arms around Chase Marshall and hug him. Only hug him, for once. I don’t know his relationship with her—were they married? Dating? How did she die?—but I can tell her passing affected him deeply.
“Chase, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”