I swallow hard and nod, even though no one asked me a question.
“Okay,” I say so my mother and father can hear it. My voice wobbles, but I don’t care. “I’ll take care of her. I’ll watch over her every day. When she’s scared, I’ll hold her hand. When she cries, I’ll make her laugh. And if anyone tries to hurt her… I’ll stop them.”
My father makes a soft sound, like he’s proud. My mother’s hand rests on my shoulder, warm and steady.
My sister yawns, a tiny pink mouth opening wide, and then she settles against my arm like she already knows she’s safe.
Something inside me clicks into place. Like a lock I didn’t know was there. Like the world just gave me the most important job it had, and I’m only six, but I already know I’ll never quit it.
“What’s her name?” I ask my mother without looking at her.
“Mary. Mary Elizabeth Hale.”
I lean down again, pressing the lightest kiss to her fuzzy head. “Hi, Mary,” I whisper. “I’m Nazareth. And I’m gonna be your guardian forever.”
Her tiny fingers curl around the edge of my shirt, holding on like she already trusts me with everything she has.
And right there, in that yellow hospital room that smells like cookies and new beginnings, my chest fills up so full in the best way.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I don’t know about the dark things waiting outside these walls.
But I know this. She’s here, and I’ll protect her. And for the first time in my whole six years, I feel like my name finally makes sense.
Guardian.
I’ll be that for her.
No matter what.
Dear Nazareth,
I've started doing this thing where I don't think about you.
It works for about ten minutes at a time.
Paris helps.
Paris is loud in a way that requires your full attention—the horns, the French I only half understand, the way everyone moves like they're perpetually late for something more important than wherever you're going.
I walk. I drink coffee at the wrong hours. I let Ian talk me into things I'd normally decline, like the wine bar on Tuesday which started out fun, then turned into a pathetic meltdown of how much I miss you.
Missing you is stupid.
I know it's stupid.
You’re not… we're not… there isn't even a word for what we are, and yet my body has apparently decided not to wait for a definition before it starts aching.
My chest does this thing in the evenings. This pressure, right in the center, like something's been sitting on it all day and I only notice when I stop.
I just want you to come back.
God, I hate that I just wrote that. I want to cross it out. I'm leaving it.
3
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