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)
And when Noah looks this way with a smile, calling out, “Hey man, want to come grab a couple of these?” Chase grins and hops up, strolling right in there. He brings back two skewers stacked with cubes of pineapple and fried Spam.
I take a bite, rolling my eyes to the sky dramatically, and Chase chuckles. “Why is this so good?”
“Why is he good at everything he does?” he mumbles.
My head snaps his way, and when I find him grinning around a mouthful, I’m the one who laughs.
After the quick treat and low conversation about the drive home tomorrow and where they want to stop this time for food, everyone decides to head to bed.
Instantly, my mind jumps back to the heavy part of the evening, and I push to my feet.
I don’t know what my face shows as I say good night, but Brady is suddenly at my side. He kisses me along my temple and whispers, “It ain’t your fault, baby girl. The man’s in his head. It’s been a hell of a year for us all, you more than most, and under all that mess he’s making, he knows that.”
He smiles reassuringly, but all I can do is nod and accept the hug he offers.
I know once I close the door behind me, locking myself inside my room, I won’t be able to sleep, but I’m simultaneously afraid I will sleep just fine and what that will bring.
My eyes fall to the playpen beside the bed, zoning in on the full head of dark curls and puffy little lips parted with soft snores.
I run my hand up and down Deaton’s back, patting his butt a couple of times before tugging the blanket a little higher on his shoulders.
If I close my eyes, I can picture his dad here with me and what he’d say, but his voice is a little harder to reach for new conversations, only words he’s spoken to me able to play out in my mind.
Brimming with guilt and desperate for connection, I lower onto the bed, fold my legs beneath me, and open my laptop, hovering over the folder icon for a long moment before squeezing my eyes closed. I click on the little blue folder, counting to five before opening my eyes.
Hot tears pool instantly as hundreds of small frames pop up, nearly every single one a shot of Deaton’s face—not little Deaton but his daddy.
There’s us at thirteen playing in the pool and us at fourteen sneaking onto the carousel ride at the county fair after being told we were too old. Us at my house and at his. School dances and his family’s fundraisers. At wrestling meets and the stupid pageants my mom forced me into.
A choked laugh leaves me as I scroll past the photo I took of him from the last pageant I was ever in. Deaton found me crying in the changing room after an epic fight with my mom over a half-eaten apple she found in the trash can—because how dare I eat so many carbs before the swimsuit segment? When I refused to come out, he put my swimsuit top on over his tank top and danced around the room. It was ridiculous and so out of character for him, but I smiled and laughed, and he said that was the point. He was good at that. Taking my ugly life and painting it pretty.
He was my best friend.
I keep going, memories assaulting me with each flick across the touch screen.
Walks in the park and trips to his family’s cabin when he would steal the keys. The day I got my license and the day he failed his driver’s test for the third time. The first day of junior year and the pep rally I shot for the school newspaper’s article on the football team…
I swallow, my heart rate jumping and sending a hint of panic through me.
Football games and walks on the beach and dancing to no music at all…
My eyes squeeze closed, warmth rolling down my cheeks.
The boy who died and the man who’s still here…
I gasp, eyes flicking to the ceiling as I inhale deeply.
With shaky hands, I close out of the little blue folder, holding my breath as I locate a second, this one buried within several other files, forcing my clicks to be deliberate and never by mistake.
I open it up, and tears fall without fail.
The very first image in the gallery isn’t of me and Mason.
It’s just him, sitting on the back deck of the beach house, his head tipped back against the cushion…my son held tight in his arms with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around him. Fast asleep.
They were both asleep, and I can’t help but notice how not a single line is to be found on Mason’s expression. He’s blissfully passed out, my baby boy wrapped in his strong arms.