Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I wish Summer didn’t have to die and that her short life hadn’t been tarnished by an illness full of pain and suffering, and I wish the world wasn’t cruel enough to take away people’s chances to watch their daughters grow up.
I know the world isn’t fair, but this isn’t that. This is fucking bullshit.
Josie’s fingers squeeze mine, and my hands itch to pull her into my arms, but when she releases her hold so that she can comfort Norah, I understand. I want my wife back, but on a day like today, you realize that a lot of people want a lot of things they don’t get.
Reverend Bob places his Bible on the casket and his hand on top of that as he bows his head and prays directly for Summer. “Your life, we honor, your departure, we accept, your memory, we cherish. Although we are filled with grief today, tomorrow, and the rest of our days, we will be grateful for your life and the privilege of having shared it with you. Rest now, sweet Summer, and live on in both God and the hearts of those who love you. Blessed we are to have known you. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
“Amen,” I say with the rest of the congregation, broken by the finality of a single word.
“I invite you now to say your goodbyes to Summer’s corporeal body and to facilitate the passing of her spirit to heaven by placing a pink rose on the top of her casket,” Reverend Bob announces. “We’ll start with the back row and work our way forward, and Hank here will be passing out flowers as you approach.”
Pete and I approach first, taking flowers from Hank and saying our goodbyes. Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked as I take my turn. “Goodbye, sweet girl,” I whisper. “Uncie Cay’s gonna miss you.”
And the pink rose serves as a painful reminder of everything I’ve lost, of what could’ve been, and of what’s so desperately missing every single day.
It makes me think about the coloring book page, the one with the Josie bride and Clay groom, and I seal my goodbye with a promise.
“Clay loves Josie.” And he’ll never fucking stop.
Before The Moment: Part 6
The Thanksgiving
40
Josie
Thursday, November 24th
I shut off the shower water, wrap a towel around my body, and start the process of putting on lotion and drying my hair. All thanks to a little bout of pregnancy-induced nausea, I’ve been up since seven this morning. Thankfully, the hot shower I just took has definitely perked me up.
For the past two weeks, Clay and I have been like ships passing in the night. He works late at the bar, and I’m too tired to stay awake past ten.
I still haven’t officially moved myself into his apartment, even though that’s the plan, and Clay has by and large stopped pressuring me to pack up Grandma’s stuff. I know he’s ready, though, and every day I go without committing to moving builds our tension a little higher. Neither of us wants it to, but it is.
Not to mention, I haven’t actually told him I’m pregnant yet, and I’m sure that’s turning me into a bit of a pressure cooker of emotion.
Once my hair is dry, I add a little texture spray to my blond curls and head out of the bathroom to wake up Clay. His big, muscular body is sprawled across the bed, his eyes are shut, and his mind is still in dreamland. He worked especially late last night, thanks to all the little birds who flew the Red Bridge coop to other towns but always manage to come back to spend the holiday with their families who still live here.
We haven’t even had a chance to talk yet, but I know from the town phone tree that Fran the florist’s daughter got up on the bar and took off her shirt while her husband looked on helplessly. Clay had to kick both of them out before they started a brawl.
“Clay, you’re going to have to start waking up,” I whisper into his ear, and he blinks his eyes open.
“What time is it?”
“A little after noon.”
“Shit,” he mutters. “What time do we have to be at Bennett’s?”
“One.”
“Fuck me,” he groans and rubs at his eyes, and I smile down at him.
“You know, complaining isn’t going to help you get out of bed any faster.”
Clay eyes me with feigned annoyance, but then he surprises the hell out of me by bear-hugging my only-towel-clad body with both of his big arms and pulling me toward him.
“Don’t you dare, Clay Matthew Harris!” I squeal. “I just fixed my hair and makeup. I am not above kicking you in the dick if you mess it up.”
My words mean jack shit to him, and he just adjusts my body over his so that his big arms are still wrapped around me, but my thighs are now straddling his hips. The only barrier between me and his already hard cock is the thin sheet between our bodies.