Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 132951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“Mildred?” Connor’s fingers brush mine.
Did I really think I could go an entire year without him learning these things about me? Something was bound to happen eventually. Some accidental trigger to set me off. Who knew the smell of apple blossoms would light the match and set my brain on fire? I fight to keep my voice steady.
“I was left a lot. In places I shouldn’t have been.” My thoughts are a flood, saturating my mind, sliding down my throat, choking me, making it impossible to continue.
The pretty flowers. The petals floating to the ground. The promise that my foster brother wouldn’t be long. Stay in the car. We’ll get ice cream later.
But he lied.
Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Stuffy. Too hot. Sunburn. Need the bathroom. Can’t hold it.
Stay in the car.
Wet pants. Wet pants. Wet pants.
The sun heading toward the horizon.
The car door opening. Finally.
Apple blossoms and laughter turning to screams.
Yanked out of the car so hard my shoulder pops out of the socket. A stinging slap across the face.
Bad girl. Bad girl. Bad girl.
Back to the group home.
Another foster family.
Having and losing, having and losing.
Being three in my first home.
Before the foster families.
I cry and cry and cry until my voice gives out.
And then silence.
So much silence.
Blue-tinged mannequins.
Open eyes. Watching TV forever.
Three sunrises and sunsets.
Mommy and Daddy smell bad.
Silence stretches on.
Empty cupboards. Empty stomach.
Knocking on the door.
Knocking. Knocking. Knocking.
I’m not supposed to open the door.
A loud crack. Frantic voices. Uniforms.
A woman with haunted, sad eyes holds me and tells me I will be okay.
But I’m not.
And I never will be.
“Hey, hey…” Warm hands on my face pull me out of the past. “Mildred, baby, look at me, where are you?”
Connor’s panicked eyes finally register as I fight my way out of the deluge and suck in a lungful of air—like I’ve been stuck underwater, like the memories have been pinning me to the floor of my mind. “I’m sorry.” I gasp and shudder.
“You don’t need to be sorry.” He takes my shaking hands in his. “Is this okay? Can I touch you? Is it okay for me to touch you?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Yes, it’s okay.” We’re parked haphazardly on the side of the road. I’m shaking. Shivering uncontrollably. Like I’m cold, but I’m not.
“Okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.” He presses my hand against his cheek. “No surprises, darling.”
“I’m sorry I don’t like them,” I whisper, hating that the past has come here with me.
“I’m the one who’s sorry.” He kisses the back of my hand, apology on his face and in his eyes, his voice cracking. “We’re driving to Blue Mountain. We have a private cabin booked on a lake. It’s pretty up there this time of year, and a short drive. I wanted to take you somewhere peaceful, because I know this whole thing has been a lot.”
“I like the lake.” I exhale another steadying breath.
“Me too. It’s a nice escape.” He kisses my knuckles, lips lingering on my skin.
“I’m okay now.” I lock it all away. Put the pain in a box and keep it there. “It just hits sometimes…little things trigger memories. Like scents. Most of the time I can find somewhere quiet to go and just…” Lose it in private. “Cope.”
He turns my hand over and kisses the inside of my wrist. It’s healed now, the skin pinker than it should be, but no more scabs. “I’m here however you need me to be, okay? If you want to talk, or even if you don’t, I’m here.”
I believe he means it. I just don’t know how he means it. He has to be here for me. It’s his role, and I’m learning that Connor takes those seriously.
He believes he’s the team scapegoat, and so he stays in that space, maybe because it’s comfortable, maybe because it’s the expectation and he doesn’t know how to break it. For Meems, he’s the boy who refused to bend to his parents’ whims. To them he’s the problem child who continues to be a problem because they don’t understand him. So what does he think he is to me? The man I have to marry to keep the things I love? The man I chose to say yes to because I love his Meems as much as he does?
Or is it deeper than that now? Have all the lines blurred for both of us? It feels like they have, but I don’t have a lot of relationship experience—by design. I’m guarded. I have baggage and some pretty intense attachment issues.
But I like him.
I’m attracted to him.
And he’s attracted to me.
Yet this contract binds us with thorns that make it difficult to maneuver. It’s the piece that forces us to be one thing when maybe we want to be something else.
“I’m okay,” I tell him again. “And we can talk about it later, when I’ve had some separation from it, if that’s okay with you.” It’s too deep a look down my well right now.