Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
As I grip the window frame to close it, I’m knocked back a step as a massive fucking bird flies straight through. Its bright colors practically smack me in the face as it scrambles through my childhood bedroom, knocking shit over in a panic.
“Fuck,” I grunt, trying to catch it, only it evades me with ease before finally coming to a stop on my bedside table, its big wings knocking over the framed photo of Zoey from our wedding day.
The bird watches me, and I hold my hands out as if to tell it I mean no harm, and then I slowly inch toward it, preparing to grab it and shove it back out the window. I mean, fuck. What kind of bird is it anyway? It’s beautiful, but shit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like it.
As I creep across my room, the bird suddenly jumps, launching itself over to my bed, walking across the bedspread until it’s standing right on top of Zoey’s book, the one I had published that she’d titled Remember Us This Way.
I go to shoo it off, not caring where the hell it wants to stand, just not on that, but it keeps moving its feet, up and down like the bird version of stomping, and I pause, wondering if it’s trying to send me some kind of message.
Nah. That’s fucking ridiculous.
I move a little closer, and as I lean toward it, the chain around my neck falls forward, both of Zoey’s wedding rings dancing right in front of the bird’s face, catching its attention. The bird leans in and knocks its head against the rings, and I pull back, staring at it in wonder.
What in the ever-loving fuck?
Maybe I’ve taken a few too many hits to the head during training because, right now, I’m starting to wonder if this bird is my dead wife. She told me that if she could be reincarnated, she’d come back as a big, colorful bird that could soar high through the sky, and then she reminded me of that in the letter she left for me, telling me to keep my window open.
So either this is a really weird coincidence or . . .
“No fucking way,” I mutter, gazing at the bird, my heart launching right out of my chest.
The bird creeps toward me, and I hesitantly hold out my hand, certain it’s about to bite the whole fucking thing off with its strong beak. Instead, it rubs its head across my hand before gazing up at me. I crouch down, putting myself eye-to-eye with the bird. There’s something about it that tells me if this thing had a human face, it’d be smirking at me, smug as fuck.
“Am I crazy for thinking you’re my Zoey?” I ask, my voice shaking.
The bird just tilts its head as if to say, Yeah dude, you’re fucking crazy, and then it struts back toward my bedside table, jumping back onto it. Only this time, it settles right on top of the fallen photo frame.
I stare at the bird for a moment when I hear Mom making her way down the hall. “Noah, you’re going to be late for Hazel’s graduation,” she calls, the sound startling the bird as it shoots back toward the window frame.
“No,” I panic, racing toward the window as it goes to take off. Only it pauses, its head swiveling back to face me, and as the sun catches on its face and lights up its eyes, I could almost swear I see that same shade of green that I’ve loved so deeply for all these years.
And then it’s gone, shooting out into the sky, and soaring high among the trees.
I gape at it, watching its beauty as it flies, knowing without a doubt that was my girl.
My heart races, filling with undeniable, bittersweet joy, something I never thought I’d ever feel again, and I smile, unable to take my eyes off it until it flies so far that it’s not even a dot in the wide open sky. For the first time in five long years, I finally feel content. At peace.
Mom’s head appears in my room, staring at me as though I’ve truly lost my mind. “Earth to Noah. You need to scram,” she says. “Oh, and close that window. You’re going to let out all the cool air.”
My brows furrow, and I look back at her. “You didn’t open it?”
“No,” she grunts with a scoff. “You know how I feel about leaving windows open. You’re going to have all sorts of rodents coming in.” She mutters to herself about having to burn down the house if that were to ever happen, and before I know it, she’s gone, leaving me staring out the window again.
Twenty minutes later, I sit in the field at East View High, the late spring sun shining over the graduates as I watch some kid in a blue cap and gown make his way up onto the stage, stopping to shake hands with Principal Daniels before receiving his high-school diploma.