The idea shouldn’t be appealing, yet it is.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll come,” she says, her voice exuding confidence.
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “We’ll see.”
Noelle’s just as persistent and confident as her brother.
“Oh, and I found something this morning,” she adds, excitement threading through her words. “It’s adorable. I found a picture in one of our old albums of Parker holding a bunch of flowers. Standing in front of me, proposing.”
It takes a minute to pull that memory from last night, but I read the texts with Parker.
“He was dead serious as a toddler and got mad when I laughed at him. According to my Dad, I wanted to marry a football coach.”
“That tracks considering your dad is a college coach and you’re married to the offensive coordinator.”
I hear her smile. “Parker’s a hopeless romantic.”
There goes my chest again, tightening. “Romantic?”
I guess I didn’t tell them we slept together or she wouldn’t be trying so hard to get us together.
“He hides it well, but when he falls… he falls hard.”
“Noelle, Parker and I have a working relationship,” I say, trying to draw a line that I want to erase.
“Right. That’s why you… oh I need to go. The baby needs to be fed. Talk soon.”
The conversation feels too normal. “Thanks for inviting me, really.”
“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing lots of you. Parker needs someone like you.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest at the way she seems so sure about whatever exists between Parker and me. “Okay, you better go. Thanks again.”
I spread a little peanut butter on my toast, fill a glass of water and swallow and throw painkillers down my throat.
Somehow I manage to shower, dress and start my daily routine.
The mailbox sits at the end of the driveway. A feeling. A flicker. My stomach knots as I pull close.
Don’t open it. Just go to work. It’ll be here when you get home.
Do I listen to myself? Of course not.
I pull on the black metal tab and see a folded piece of paper, no actual mail.
My breath catches. I’m careful and cautious like it could blow up when I inch it out.
My hands are steady. How, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a note from Parker making sure I got home last night. My mind is trying hard to come up with a scenario for a folded note to be in my mailbox.
I unfold it.
You don’t get to pretend you were just a child.
You saw what he did.
You heard the cries.
