Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
But Dad never got around to teaching either of us about gentleness or whimsy. Apparently, he decided those parts of who we used to be as a family were better off forgotten.
Just like Mom.
He only talks about her once a year, on Mother’s Day, when we used to visit her grave when we still lived in Minnesota. Now, we just pay someone from the cemetery maintenance team to put flowers in the vase built into her headstone.
The thought makes the back of my nose start to sting again, but I shut it down with a sniff and a glare. I refuse to start crying again. Especially about Mom. It’s been over twenty years since she died. I should be over the crying phase of losing her by now.
Usually, I am. Tonight just sucks.
Though, I confess it’s sucking much less now that Tyler’s here…
When he returns to the car, wiping his hands on a rag, he’s beaming like his usual, golden-retriever-in-human-form self. “All set. The spare should get you home, but you’ll want to get a new tire tomorrow. That rim’s pretty banged up, too.”
“Thank you,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “I really appreciate this, Stone. Seriously.”
“Anytime.” His eyes hold mine for a beat before his gaze shifts to the steering wheel. “How about I follow you home? Just to make sure you get there, okay? It would be a shame if something goes wrong with the spare, and no one’s around. And I’m headed the same direction, anyway.”
I should tell him it’s not necessary. That I’m fine now, perfectly capable of driving myself the remaining twenty miles to my apartment.
But instead, I hear myself whisper in a wobbly voice that isn’t like me, “Sure. Thanks.”
I’m really not myself tonight. At all.
The drive home passes in a blur. I’m vaguely aware of Stone’s headlights in my rearview mirror, but when I pull into my assigned spot behind my small apartment complex, my hands are still trembling on the wheel.
WTF? Pull it together, Lauder, the inner voice insists, sounding more like my father than ever.
I sit for a long moment, trying to collect myself, but the adrenaline crash is hitting hard, leaving me shaky and hollow. It probably doesn’t help that I’ve barely gotten six hours of sleep a night the past few weeks.
I’ve just been too busy for sleep.
A tap on my window startles me. It’s Stone, out of his SUV, watching me in the soft glow from the lamp above the rear entrance, concern etched on his face.
I roll down the window. “Hey.”
“You all right?” he asks.
I try to summon my usual strength, my unflappable coach persona. Instead, tears start rolling down my cheeks again.
Just…rolling. Like water.
“Shit,” I say, half laughing as I get out of the car, slamming my door behind me with a shaking arm. “I seriously don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Your nervous system is tapped out, woman. Obviously,” he says, his voice a soothing rumble as he parks a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the building. “Come on, let’s get you inside and headed for a reset. I have strategies.”
“You do?” I ask, as I dig my keys from my bag.
“I do.” Stone takes them from my hand, taking charge in a way that would normally annoy me. But right now, it’s nice to have someone punch in the code for the back entrance, manage the elevator buttons, and open both locks on my third-floor apartment.
Inside, my apartment is a sanctuary of clean minimalism—white walls, sleek furniture, everything in its place. The order is the exact opposite of how I feel right now, which is already a comfort.
“Sit,” Stone says, leading me to my couch. “I’m going to make you some tea, while you—”
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t interrupt,” he says, already heading for my kitchen like he owns it. “I’m making tea, and you’re going to breathe in for a long, slow count of four, and then out for five. That should help activate your parasympathetic nervous system,” he calls out, raising his voice to be heard around the corner. “It’s a trick Stephanie taught Tank, and he taught me. Great for getting out of your head and making your body feel safe relaxing, and letting its guard down. Put a hand on your belly and watch your stomach rise and fall while you do it.”
I feel a little silly, but I place a hand on my stomach anyway. At this point, I’m not really in a position to refuse help or insist that I’m fine.
As the sound of my kettle filling with water reaches me, I begin to breathe. I’ve taken enough of Stephanie’s classes to be familiar with this exercise, but I’ve never paid much attention to the breathing parts of class. I go to hot yoga for strength and flexibility, not Zen.