Page 44 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

My voice won’t come as he climbs into a black SUV and speeds away.

I don’t know how long I stand in my yard, feeling like a rag doll, my arms hanging limply by my sides, tears streaking my cheeks. But when I finally head inside, my knees buckle, and I catch myself against the doorframe. My sketchbook is splayed face down on the floor, its pages bent.

I stare at it like it’s a villain.

If I hadn’t left it on the island, he wouldn’t have come.

If he hadn’t come, I could pretend there was a chance he’d understand why I lied. My throat burns, sobs vying for release. I press my knuckles against my mouth to keep them from breaking free, but after days of holding back, the dam breaks, and my legs give out. I sink down to the floor, a sobbing, heartbroken mess.

I thought the worst part of lying was living with it. But it turns out it’s watching the truth destroy someone you never meant to hurt. I close my eyes against that pain, and Seth’s words burn through my mind—You made that choice knowing exactly what it would do to us—an echo of the words I used when I told him about my mother. Like some kind of cruel mirror I didn’t even see until now, amplifying my guilt and misery.

After years of telling myself I’m nothing like her, it turns out I’m no better than she is.

Chapter Fifteen

Taylor

I open my father’s oven, and a wave of heat rolls out with the scents of garlic, tomatoes, and baked cheese. The familiar aroma of my father’s favorite meal, which I’ve made dozens of times, should be comforting, but it isn’t. It just reminds me of how good it felt when I had comfort and how empty I feel without it.

Becca sidles up to me looking like she stepped out of an old fashion magazine with her hair twisted up in a beehive, wearing a sixties-style navy shift with a white collar, white cuffs, and matching Mary Jane high heels. She touches my arm and whispers, “You okay?”

It’s a simple question, but there’s no easy answer. The last six days I’ve been running on fumes and uncomfortable, guilt-ridden thoughts, served on a platter of sadness. I can’t shake the awfulness of knowing that after spending a lifetime trying not to be like my mother, I ended up hurting someone I care about just as badly as she did. Seth and I have kept things professional because we have to. My emails receive short, polite replies with no teasing, no warmth, only distance. He’s in Australia trying to find new warehouse space. Based on the brief emails I’ve received, the first half of his trip went well. Before I ruined things, that kind of update would have come with a joke or a photo. Now it was just the facts. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s something more from him, but it never is. He hasn’t texted my work number once since I left the island. He’s probably trying to figure out how to fire me without his administrative work falling apart.

I want to tell Becca all of that, to confess again, as I did Thursday evening when I landed on her living room couch, a blubbering mess, that I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me, just to hear her hand me a shred of hope. But Dad is in the next room, and the television just turned off, so I keep it to myself and say, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be,” she whispers. “Seth’s probably hurting, too, you know.”

“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what makes it worse.”

She gives my arm a squeeze, then steps past me to put the hot pad on the dining room table. I pull the lasagna out of the oven and head into the dining room.

“Get off the couch, damn brat,” my father grumbles from the living room.

I look over as I put the lasagna on the table and see my father having a stare down with Barney, the fluffy caramel and cream Australian shepherd mix I’ve been falling in love with lately from the shelter. I’m caring for him tonight. Or rather, he’s caring for me. I need a little unconditional love, even if I don’t deserve it. I think my father does, too. Barney has been sticking by his side since I got here, and my father has been vacillating between grumbling at him and petting him. The poor thing probably has no idea what he really wants, but that’s my father’s way. God forbid he admits he likes anything he feels has been thrust upon him.

“I said off,” my father snaps, nudging Barney.

With another nudge, Barney jumps off the couch and stares at him, his tail wagging. My father curses under his breath as he peels himself off the couch. He wore himself out on his road trip with his friend. Every movement costs him twice as much as it should in energy and pain—not that he’ll admit that, either.

He shuffles slowly toward the dining room, the drag of his left foot an indication of how badly he’s worn himself out. Barney trots beside him.

“Get outta my way,” my father gripes. “Damn thing is shedding all over.”

“I’ll brush him right after dinner,” I say, pulling out my father’s chair. “Here, Dad. Sit down and relax.”

“I can pull out my own chair.” He stalks unsteadily to the other side of the table, determined to make a point, and pulls out a chair. “Smells like a restaurant in here.”

“Thanks,” I say proudly.

“Hope you didn’t burn it,” he adds with a bit of a smirk.

Becca rolls her eyes and says, “You’re welcome.”

He grumbles something that might be thanks and lowers himself into the chair. I know his body hurts, and he’s so exhausted, he probably feels like it’s too heavy to hold up, but he still manages to sit up straight with the same stubborn dignity he’s exuded my entire life.

Barney stands beside his chair, tail wagging.

“Get outta here,” my father barks, and glowers at Barney.