“Jesus, you’re going to be a hot mom one day.”
I can’t help it, a laugh breaks through the tears. He’s right. My mother was the otherworldly type of beautiful. Timeless. I snatch the photo back, shoving him gently, but his grip around me just tightens.
I flip the photo over and hand it back so that he can see the whole truth.
He stills for a moment, reading my dad’s words to me. After a long moment, he leans forward to press his lips to my temple. “You deserved the love that you needed, Red.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, another ugly sob tearing through me. Carter tugs me into the crook of his arm. I let him. I curl into him, weeping into the fabric of his shirt. I mourn for my sisters. For the little girl in the photo. For myself now.
He’s right. I deserved more.
Shedeserved more.
“I hate him so much.”
“I know,” he whispers, his hand stroking the length of my arm. “You’re allowed to feel how you feel. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. But you were incredible today, and you are a fantastic sister.”
I’m not, but I’m trying to be. I wish I knew how to be the woman they needed. It’s like I always miss the mark by a couple of inches. I’ll never fill the role of what we lost on that sunny day, seventeenyears ago.
“I want my mom,” I sob.
I physically hear Carter swallow at that comment. He brushes his lips against my hair. “I know.”
I cry harder, and he shuffles us backward on the carpet. For a moment, I think he’s going to pull me onto the bed to make me more comfortable, but he doesn’t. He sits with me on the ground, our backs against the mattress, and reaches upward onto the bed. A moment later, he pries a little space between our bodies.
I don’t open my eyes. I feel the rough fabric that I have memorized, identifying the different patterns between the black fur and the white stripe with a simple touch. I melt into this man’s arms as he pushes that toy skunk between us, before he completely engulfs me in his hug.
“She’s right here,” he reminds me, and I realize something terrifying in that moment. This man understands. This big, temper-driven, bleeding heart of a man comprehends what this stuffed animal means to me, what he represents, the placeholder that he is. He doesn’t judge me for it. He doesn’t find it stupid or immature. He knows Stinky is important. He knows the power he holds.
And I love him for it.
I’min love withhim for it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
carter
Arden stirs in my arms,so I pull her closer. She’s been whimpering in her sleep on and off, letting out these little painful cries that make my heart break in my chest. I can’t imagine what she’s dreaming about, but I can only hope that it’s her mom visiting her. I hope that she’s comforting her in all the ways I can’t, no matter how hard I try.
She needs her mom.
I knew that she was going to break eventually. I didn’t know when, or over what, but the complexity of feelings she must be wading through was going to force her to her knees at some point. When I found her on the floor, I felt a strange sense of inexplicable relief. She had to let herself feel it. She couldn’t hold all this in forever. My fear was that she’d try to anyway, and she would combust out of nowhere one day when I wasn’t close enough to catch her.
Arden relaxes in my arms, settling against my chest. I stare at the walls of her childhood bedroom. So unlike her apartment. So different. There is life in this room. Heart. Posters on the wall of boy bands. Pictures of her and her friends, all ofwhom she probably hasn’t talked to since she moved. She has cards from every single one of her birthdays in a little box on her dresser, some signed by her mom and dad, some from her sisters.
They stop after her eleventh. I checked while she showered.
I like her sisters. I do. Anya is a bit testy, but she’s also been dealt a pretty crappy hand, and it’s not my business how these girls handle that pain. Serena is a good girl. She loves Arden, even if she doesn’t understand the way she operates. Unlike Anya, she tries to. Still, anger courses through my entire fucking body when I look at those cards.
I have no doubt that if either of her sisters gave Arden a birthday card growing up, it would have been in that box.
Arden sighs, backing up against me, still sound asleep. I slide my hand to her stomach, holding her body to mine. This poor girl. She’s had to endure so much. I know all of those life events are what brought her to me, but I’d sacrifice my own happiness to ensure she had a childhood that was full of happiness and laughter and love. Because she deserved that.
She deserved a dad who bought her a fucking birthday card.
She deserved sisters who thought about her as frequently as she thought about them.
She deserved love.
