Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
And just like always, I glance at it with that same irrational hope—that it might be from her. Even though I know it won’t be.
They say it’s normal. That grief does that to you.
But I’m so tired of this part.
I swipe.
It’s Vadka.
My heart flinches.
I miss her.
Vadka
Hey, where have you been? We miss you. Are you all right?
We.
They miss me.
Not just Luka.
Vadka does.
Of course he does. I’m the living thread to his dead wife. The only connection left.
I don’t resent him for it, but I do wish he missed me, not just who I represent and the comfort that might bring.
I type back:
Hey, I’m good. Just working a lot, getting some things done. Need to get a haircut.
Vadka
And an oil change.
I can practically hear his voice. That low, rich sound that’s starting to haunt my dreams. We’re talking about haircuts and oil changes. The next thing up, we’ll talk about the weather or maybe the price of milk. God.
An oil change.
I smirk.
Yeah, I guess I should probably do that too.
Vadka
Luka has been asking for you every day. When are you free again?
My heart thumps. I hesitate. Then type:
I’m free now. How’s the new nanny working out?
Vadka
I don’t know yet. Trying not to judge too fast. But she seems… strict.
Why didn’t it dawn on me? That Vadka wouldn't be into hiring someone from the district. That’s not his style. He grew up, and he’s changed. Lately, he doesn’t want anyone like that around Luka. He wants someone different. Someone better. He wants someone who will love Luka the way his mother did. Full stop.
I’m gonna give her more time though. She just started. Luka doesn’t like her.
Great. Did I let my own selfish, tangled-up feelings cloud my ability to be fair? Was I judging her too quickly? Was I making it about me instead of about what Luka needed?
I really fucking did.
Well, that sucks. Yeah… give it a couple days and see what happens. Maybe she’ll soften up a bit. Um. How are things with the Irish?
Vadka
That’s something we should talk about in person. But the short answer is… quiet.
Is that a good thing?
Vadka
In person, Ruthie.
My heart skips a beat and flips over in my chest like it’s trying to get free. I stick my tongue out at the phone like a teenager with a crush. I remember the way he slapped my ass that night we shared a bed, the way my whole body lit up like a fuse was lit under my skin. The way I tumbled straight out of my head and into pure sensation.
Vadka
Early dinner today?
Yes. Please. I'd like that.
Vadka
I’ll pick you up. See you in an hour?
Perfect.
Vadka
See you then.
I set my phone down and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair’s in a messy bun. I’m in a T-shirt with no bra underneath. I haven’t touched my eyebrows in… I don’t even know how long. And—oh my god—is that a white hair on my chin? What the actual fuck? When did that happen?
My clothes are cold and a little stiff—they’re old and don’t fit like they used to. Not surprising, honestly. I wear things until they fall apart. I hate shopping for clothes. Always have. There are maybe two things on earth I'd rather do less than shop, and that’s saying something. I only ever enjoyed it with Mariah because she made it feel like a game, like something we could laugh through. She made it bearable, even fun. She was taller and thinner than me, so we never shared clothes. But God, I wish we could have. I’d give anything to have a piece of her that I could wrap around me and pull close like armor. Like comfort. Anything.
I throw on a pair of black leggings and a black shirt. And I already hear my sister’s voice in my head, scolding me with love.
“You need color, beautiful. It’s like you’re in mourning every day.”
I am now.
That voice… might be the only thing that could convince me to try something other than this all-black armor I live in. I don’t want to stay here anymore. I don’t want to be frozen in time. What is this? Old-school Italy? I’ll mourn the death of my sister—my best friend—until the day I die. But mourning doesn’t mean I stop living. Mourning doesn’t mean I pull the blinds closed on my entire life.
Still… I don’t know how to dress myself anymore.
Talking to her voicemail helped. So I decide to text her.
Will Vadka see it? Would he read her texts? I don’t know why he would… Who’s texting a dead woman, right?
I need new clothes. I don’t know how to shop for myself. You once told me that when I wear all black, it makes me look like I’m in mourning. And there’s never been a time when that mattered more than now. I don’t want to look like mourning anymore, Mariah. Because maybe… if I don’t look like mourning… it won’t feel like I am.