Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“I miss my parents, Jack,” I say, and the words are a confession, a surrender. “Even after everything they said to me. I can’t just… I can’t just cut them off. I thought I could, but—”
I don’t finish. I don’t need to. He puts down the dish he’s drying, comes over, and wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing my back into his chest. I feel his heartbeat through my spine, steady and massive, as if he’s trying to lend me a few extra beats to keep me upright.
“You should call your mom,” he says quietly, his lips warm against my hair. “Nancy. She’s probably hurting just as much as you. Maybe more.”
I shake my head, but he doesn’t let go. “She doesn’t want to hear from me. She said—”
He turns me around, thumbs under my jaw, making me look him in the eye. “People say things when they’re scared, Eliza. Sometimes they mean the opposite.”
“I don’t want to make it worse.”
“You won’t.” He wipes a tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “But if you want, I can stay out of it. You can talk to her alone. I won’t listen. Whatever you want.”
I study his face, the gleaming blue of his eyes, straight nose, and square chin. His gaze is sincere, and he’s not just humoring me. He means it. He’s giving me the runway, but letting me choose if I want to take off or taxi back to the hangar.
“You think it’s a good idea?” I say, voice wobbly.
He nods, never breaking eye contact. “They’re your parents, Eliza. Of course it’s a good idea.”
I exhale, the relief almost painful. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow.”
He hugs me again, then steers me upstairs, arm around my shoulder, warm and heavy.
That night, Jack falls asleep first, because that’s what he does—hits the mattress and is out in three minutes, like a man. I lie next to his huge form, wide awake, his arm draped over my waist like a weighted blanket, and watch the streetlights flicker against the ceiling. My mind spins endless scenarios: Nancy hanging up on me, Nancy sobbing, Nancy cursing me out. Or maybe just silence, and the terrible void that follows.
I try to script what I’ll say: “Hi Mom, it’s me, I’m not dead, sorry I ruined your reputation in town, sorry I blew up the family, sorry I—” It’s pointless. All I want is to hear her voice, just once, and have her say it’s not all lost.
I must drift off at some point, because the next thing I know it’s morning, and Jack is already in the kitchen, making eggs and reading the news on his phone. He’s in boxers and a soft t-shirt, bare-legged, hair still wet from the shower, and so handsome, as always. The sight makes me feel steadier, like the world hasn’t ended and maybe won’t.
I slide onto a stool at the island, phone in hand, heart hammering.
“Coffee?” he asks, pouring without waiting for my answer. I nod, wrap my hands around the mug, and stare at my phone until the screen goes black, then tap it awake again. And again.
Jack comes around the counter, sets a hand on my shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. “You got this, sweetheart.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I do. “I’ll do it now,” I say, mostly so I can’t take it back.
I stand, walk to the window, and dial. The ring is so long it feels endless. My mouth goes dry. Then—click—someone picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s my mom. Nancy’s voice is thinner, raspier, like she’s aged five years in as many weeks.
“Mom?” I say, and my own voice breaks. “It’s me. I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee. Just coffee. That’s all.”
There’s a silence so wide I can hear her breathing.
Finally, she says, “Okay. When?”
I look at Jack. He raises an eyebrow in support.
“Whenever you want,” I say, and it comes out so hopeful that it almost makes me cry.
“Today,” she says, then, “Ten-thirty. Calico Café.”
I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. “I’ll be there.”
Click. She hangs up.
I stand there, phone to my ear, breathing in and out. Jack comes up, rubs my back. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I look at him, then at the clock, and realize I have forty minutes to get ready.
“Wish me luck?” I say, faking a smile.
He kisses my cheek, then pours more coffee. “You don’t need it, Eliza. But you’ve got it anyway.”
I take the mug, the phone, and a shaky sense of hope, and head upstairs to get dressed, wondering if I’m about to walk into a second ambush or the first step of forgiveness.
The Calico Café is one of those places that can’t decide if it wants to be a small-town diner or a third-wave coffee temple. The smell inside is equal parts burnt toast, cinnamon, and hipster ambition. I arrive fifteen minutes early, because I can’t handle the possibility of walking in and seeing my mother already there, watching me approach. I want to be the watcher, not the watched.