Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I sigh. “June’s grandma is terminally ill.”
“Sorry to hear that. But everyone is going to die. If you make it to be a grandparent, I don’t think anyone should feel cheated when you die. Now, if we’re done here, I have to work.”
“Thanks, man,” I say.
He laughs. “I didn’t do a damn thing, but you’re welcome.”
I set my phone on the counter and exhale. What is this life of mine?
“FUUUCK!”
The voices in my head return. I don’t even know whose they are, perhaps a mix of every person who has ever tried to tell me anything. So I go for another run, using memories of Zoya playing Bach to propel me around the lake.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
After six miles, I drop in the same spot, stare at the same sky, and wait for a different outcome.
When I return to the house, entering through the back door by the laundry room, I hear voices. Loud voices. Rupert and Callie are home, and they’re arguing. I’ve never lived in a house where the couple didn’t scream at each other. Why should this house be any different?
“It’s a fucking decision, Callie,” Rupert says. “Right now. Not tomorrow. Not in ten years. Not in another life. Just make the choice to let go and be happy. Otherwise, what are you even doing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If I can’t reach your perceived level of happiness, then I shouldn’t be here? Do you mean with you? In this house? In this life?”
“I’m not saying that,” he says.
“Sounds like it. Rupert, you can’t undo what’s been done. You can’t erase it from my brain. It doesn't matter how many people you find to distract me. You can hire a hundred Flynns, and I’ll find a soft spot in my heart for every single one of them. But I don’t need a muse. I don’t need inspiration. The only thing I need is for you to accept me for who I am now. Not the woman you married. Not the person I was before he died. ME! The Callie who will have good days and bad days for the rest of her life. The grandmother who will never forget what happened and who will always feel a little dead inside. If I were disabled from a car accident, unable to walk again, you wouldn’t tell me to get out of my stupid wheelchair and just walk like it’s a decision. This heartache—”
Her voice cracks. “This heartache is every bit as permanent and disabling as losing a physical ability. And if you weren’t such a selfish man who yearns for a time that is lost and can never be again, then you’d accept me where I’m at. You’d take the good days and magnify each moment. But you’d also give me space on the days that I just want to allow my heart to feel the grief that comes in waves.”
I step around the corner into the hallway to hear better as Rupert lowers his voice to a volume of defeat.
“I fix things,” he says. “I build things. I create things. It’s who I am. And when the woman I love more than anyone in the world has bad days, I feel incapable of doing nothing.”
“You are Flynn. He is you,” she says. “You’re both hellbent on seeing the world as you think is just and right, instead of how it is. Sometimes you have to let go and trust the process. There’s an ancient philosophy that states by doing nothing, everything is done. Stop resisting. Let yourself flow with life around you. Welcome changes in your life and how you see life around you.” She sniffles. “We buried a friend today. Of course it triggered painful memories, and I felt them because I’m alive. I get to feel. Pain. Grief. Regret. Happiness. Hope. Love. I get to feel all the emotions. I want to feel everything. So just … let me.”
I peek around the corner into the kitchen. When their heads are bowed like there’s nothing else to say, I dash to the stairs, taking them two at a time. After a shower, I lie on my bed and type out a text to June.
If a guy from MN wanted to visit a girl in CA how would he go about doing that?
I stare at the screen for more than thirty minutes, then delete it before heading downstairs, listening for voices before descending the stairs. No one’s in the kitchen, so I check Rupert’s office. It’s empty. Then I check downstairs, and he’s hitting balls with his golf simulator.
“Do you golf?” he asks, focusing on his shot.
I open my mouth to say it’s a rich man’s sport, and he should know the answer. “Never had the opportunity,” I say instead.
“Well, let’s see whatcha got.” He hands me the club and nods for me to stand by the rubber tee.