Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
After I’m finished loading the dishwasher, I rinse the sink, wash the pots and pans, and set them on the drying mat. All I need to do is wipe down the counter, and then I’ll grab a quick shower, and apparently, I’ve got some snuggling to do. I chuckle to myself as Baylor steps back into the room.
“Almost finished,” I tell her, working to quickly wipe down the counter. I finish, toss the paper towels I was using in the trash, and place the cleaner beneath the sink. “I know it’s time for snuggle duty. Let me grab a quick shower,” I say, shutting the cabinet and turning to face her.
She’s standing still, a look I can’t quite decipher on her face. She’s holding something in her hands, and when I step closer, I realize what it is. “Hey, I’ve been looking for that,” I tell her.
“Macklin,” she says, her voice cracking. “What?” she asks, shaking her head.
“Did something happen? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” I ask, instantly on alert. I knew she seemed off.
“I—” She starts and stops. “Where did you get this?” She holds up the small, cheap dollar-store photo album I’ve had for years. It’s one of those soft-sided, floppy, thin ones that hold a few pictures. Like twenty, I think.
“It’s mine.”
She peers down at the album in her hands, and I see a slight tremble in her grip. “Hey, are you mad?” I ask her. I take a step closer, wrapping my arms around her. She buries her face in my chest. I hold her, letting her work through whatever’s going on in that beautiful brain of hers.
“Come here,” I say, guiding her to the counter. Placing my hands on her hips, I lift her onto the island that I just meticulously cleaned after dinner, and step between her legs, putting us at eye level. “Tell me what’s going on up here,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“You have a photo album of me.”
“I do.” She’s holding the evidence in her hands. Not that I would lie about it anyway. I’m not ashamed of carrying her with me over the years.
“Why? How?”
“I told you that I wanted you.”
“I know, but this—” She holds up the album. “They’re all of me, Macklin.”
“I wanted you with me. At first, you were in college, living your dream, and I was on the circuit. This was how I kept you close while you were doing that. Then when you graduated, I thought it might be our time, but you moved to New York, and well, you know the rest of the story. Each time, I’d snap a photo and print it from my phone. I know it sounds like I’m a creeper, and hell, maybe I am, but it made me feel like I had a piece of you with me when I was on the road.”
“You took it with us to Nashville this weekend.”
“Ah, it must have still been in my duffel. I carried that thing for years. I just tossed in some clothes and whatever I thought I might need for our trip. I forgot the album was still in there.”
She’s quiet, not saying anything as she stares down at the album in her hands, so I keep talking, worry settling in my gut.
“I’m sorry if this upsets you, Baylor. I promise it’s nothing creepy or weird. I just missed you. I needed to know that I at least had something of you with me when I was out on the road. I understand if you’re angry with me, but please don’t give up on us because of this,” I say, my voice small. I’m not against begging her for forgiveness. I truly didn’t think that I was doing anything wrong, but from her reaction, I think I fucked up.
She doesn’t say anything.
The silence builds between us, like a wall meant to divide. This is bad, really bad. My chest tightens, and every worst-case scenario I can come up with is running through my mind. She’s staring down at the album as if it holds secrets, which, in a way, I guess it does.
My secrets.
However, they’re no longer secrets. I’ve bared my soul to her. I’ve held nothing back but this, and it wasn’t intentional. It was out of sight, out of mind. I had been looking for it, but not with urgency.
“Baylor…?” My tone is soft, and I can hear the worry, so I know that she can, too, but she might be too lost in her head to name it.
Her fingers trace the edge of the album, almost reverently, like it’s something fragile. Something to cherish. Slowly, she opens it.
The first page makes her inhale sharply.
I feel that inhale deep in my chest, as if it were my own. “Baylor—” I start, but her words cut me off.