Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I see you.
When I open my eyes, I release a long breath. “I believe wherever my beautiful Josephine is right now, she’s at peace. And making whatever world she’s in a better place. That’s what she does. She makes everything … better.”
I weave my way between the rows of chairs instead of taking a seat in the front row again. Then I get into my car and drive to the Watts’ house.
Through the backyard.
Into the woods.
Up the tree.
Swinging my legs from “our” branch, I laugh. Then I laugh a little more, a little harder. “Tessa Hart was at your celebration of life. Remember her? The placeholder? Actually, there was a surprising number of people from our class, which means nobody moves away from Des Moines unless they are awesome like us. It also means you had more friends than you ever imagined because you were awesome. And everything.” The smile slides off my face. “Josie … I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I couldn’t fix it. Fix you. I’m sorry I only saw you and not him. Had I let myself focus on him, I would have seen you dying long before you took your own life.”
Fuck the tears. I set them free.
Everything hurts from my burning eyes to my aching heart. The cold void of nothingness in my soul has never been as chilling as it is right now. It’s taken me months to make it here. Home. And now that I’m here where she used to be everywhere, her absence feels like it’s crushing my fucking heart.
I sniffle, tipping my chin to let more tears find their way to the earth below. “Is this how you felt? Alone? Like the best part of you was gone? Stolen?” Nodding slowly, I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Maybe you …” I grit my teeth when more tears blur my vision. “Maybe you were him … but he wasn’t you. Josie … He. Wasn’t. You.” And with that, I pull out a candy bar and eat it all by myself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“I don’t want to wear that.” Reagan scrunches her little nose at me while I hold up her T-ball shirt.
“It’s your team’s tee. You have to wear it. Everyone else will be wearing theirs.”
“Mom said I don’t have to be like other kids.”
I sit on the end of her bed, chuckling. “That’s correct. You are unique. No one is like you. This shirt will not change that. It will make it, so the rest of your team recognizes you as one of the team members. When you’re on the field, you need to know if the person standing by a base is the one running on your team or a player from the other team trying to get you out.”
With her arms crossed, she huffs. “Fine.” She holds up her arms and lets me pull her shirt over her head. “I’m sad mommy won’t be at the game.”
“She is too. But she’ll be at your next game. Now, grab your shoes and I’ll get your bag. We don’t want to be late.” My hands cup her face a second before I give her a big smooch on the cheek. “I love you, Button. Let’s go have some fun.”
As soon as we get to the ball fields, Reagan bolts toward her team.
“Your glove!”
She turns and stomps her way back to me as if it’s my fault she forgot her glove.
“What do you say?”
She mumbles a thank you before breaking into a full sprint again.
“I don’t want to play!”
I glance over at the girl throwing a fit in the minivan next to my car.
“I don’t like T-ball. It’s stupid.”
“Find a better word than stupid if you expect me to listen to your little rant,” her mom says, grabbing her glove before tossing the girl over her shoulder.
I don’t expect that, so I snort a laugh and cover my mouth when she glances in my direction. The daughter pulls her mom’s blond ponytail.
The mom ignores her, closing the sliding door and locking the minivan like she’s a pro at getting things done with a young girl held hostage over her shoulder.
“I don’t know a better word than stupid,” the girl says, yanking the ponytail a little harder.
“Then tough luck, little duck.”
Tough luck, Mr. Duck.
Following the echo of her words, I make my way to the field where the kids are warming up. A few seconds after I take a seat on the bottom bleacher, that mom takes a seat on the same bleacher a good four feet from me.
She gives me a smile. “Which one is yours?”
I nod toward Reagan. “The one chasing butterflies.”
She laughs. “At least she wants to be here.”
“Sort of. She didn’t want to wear the shirt because her mom told her she doesn’t have to be like everyone else.”