Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I open it tentatively, unsure whether I want it to be from Byron or not.
Happy memories. Be happy. B
I’m flooded with senses of loss and comfort at the same time. Byron must have snuck in here at some point this afternoon and hidden the card behind the cushion. I can’t help but smile at the thought of him in here—risking being seen because he wanted me to have this card. From him. It makes the place feel more like home.
That’s what it is now.
I work quickly, putting my toiletries in the bathroom and the few items of clothes I have in the drawers and the closet. I’m about done when there’s a knock on my door. I snatch the card from where I’ve put it on the windowsill and slide it under the pillow on my bed before I take the four steps to the door and open it.
“Hi!” Eden squeals. “We’re neighbors. Come see.”
Eden’s room is set up just like mine. Only the view out of the window is different—a slightly different stretch of knoll, and different tree trunks beyond.
“Aren’t they nice rooms?” Eden asks.
“Really nice,” I say. “Cozy.”
“Have you seen the kitchen?”
Before I can answer, she pulls me out of the bedroom and leads me down the corridor to a room at the end. It’s larger than I expected, and includes a pine table under the window and six chairs. “Six of us share the kitchen. There are two refrigerators though, and we have a cupboard each, along with shared pots and pans. Only one dishwasher.”
“I’ll take it,” I say.
The blinds at the window are covered in pictures of daisies. The cabinets and counters are bright white.
“Should we have a cooking schedule?” she asks. “So one of us cooks every six nights?”
I wince. “I think that might get complicated. Maybe you and I could cook for each other once a week and the rest of the time we figure it out as we go?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. We’ll all want to eat different things at different times because of our shifts and all. I got overexcited there for a minute. It’s just I never had a big family, and it feels like this is what I’m getting being here,” she says.
I laugh. “I was one of four sisters. Big family mealtimes were… not always fun.” There was always a lot of arguing about everything, from who got the fork with the bent tine to who got drinks for the table. But there were some good times too. Mostly when Mom wasn’t there. Every now and then we’d share a joke or reminisce about a funny memory—like the time Kitty decided she was going to make pottery ornaments and sell them to the fellow residents of the trailer park to earn enough money for a family vacation. Things hadn’t gone to plan because she’d only made twelve dollars.
But the fun times never lasted. We were always squabbling soon enough, always trying to avoid Mom’s accusations of misconduct or pass them on if they landed on us. It was constant conflict.
“Well, let’s make sure our mealtimes are fun,” Eden says.
“I like that idea,” I say with a nod. I like the idea of turning the negatives into positives. Of changing the future so it’s nothing like the past, of unbending myself so I can stand tall. At last.
TWENTY-NINE
Byron
I sit on the porch, fixated on the empty swing next door.
I miss her. Maybe I needed a trip back to New York sooner than I thought I did. The opening of the Club is in less than two weeks. Maybe I could squeeze in a weekend back to Manhattan, catch up with the guys, shoot some bourbon. Have fun.
A meowing from underneath the cabin catches my attention. “Cat?” I ask. It couldn’t be, could it? Just as Rosey leaves the cabins, Athena comes back? The creature probably feels sorry for my pathetic ass.
“Athena,” I call.
Out of nowhere, a white ball of fur flies onto the porch railing, nearly giving me a heart attack.
“Jesus Christ, Cat, you know how to give me a scare.”
Athena just meows, giving me a look that says, You’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a shit about you and your heart. My first thought is to text Rosey to tell her Athena is back. But I can’t. I need time and space to move on. I’m sure she does too. Starting a conversation will pull us both back in, when what we need is to relearn what it feels like to stand on our own.
A car pulls into the driveway, stealing my attention. Nancy French emerges from the driver’s seat.
“Hey,” I call, hoping my voice hides my surprise.
“I brought you a pie,” she says, lifting the edge of foil on a covered dish.
“Wow, that’s great,” I say, standing to greet her. I swear she’s worn the same dark jeans and bright red bow in her hair since I was born. She probably dressed the exact same way since high school. “Thank you.” I’m not sure what I did to deserve a pie, but I’m not going to complain. Hers is the best in the state of Colorado, regardless of what Mike says.