Page 135 of Love Felt Like This

“I have ways.”

“Scary.”

“I can be scary.”

My heavy head settles into the cushioned pillow. Does Ava feel this miserable? Who is changing her diapers? Who is feeding her?

“I need to check on Ava,” I murmur again, sitting up.

Beverly’s palm whips out and pushes against my chest. Her hand, splayed over my damp shirt, sends sizzling heat to my stomach. Suddenly, I’m not cold at all.

“I’ve got her,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

“You can’t take care of both of us.”

“Watch me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. It’s defiant. I’ve seen the same look in the mirror.

“You are a bit scary. I’m rubbing off on you.”

“I could stand to be more serious.”

“No,” I say. My fingers have a life of their own as they reach out to stroke a strand of her delicate blond hair hanging down, running it between my fingers before tucking it behind her ear. “No, I like you just as you are.”

She stiffens in the rickety chair beside the foldout couch. Her hands tense in her lap as the chair creaks beneath her.

“Should I not have done that?” I ask out loud.

“It’s all right,” she answers after a moment, blinking to the floor.

When sleep finally takes me under, I swear I see her smiling.

Chapter Twenty-Five

An Indulgence

Griffin

I awaken to a sliver of sun beaming across the den. It’s dark on the lower floor of the Lark household. No lamps are on, just sun highlighting wood paneling and dust-covered photo frames. The whistling wind still pounds against the windows. It’s quiet in the house. No more footsteps in the kitchen. I don’t know what time it is.

I shift under the sheets. A cat jumps off the bed. I watch as Steak darts up the stairs.

Huh.

My feet nudge something at the end of the bed. I sit up. My head still feels heavy, but it gets lighter, more faint, when I take in the sight before me.

Beverly is kneeling beside the metal bed frame—half on the floor, half on the bed. An abandoned puppet tangled in needle and thread lies across the sheets. Her eyes are closed as her head rests on the back of her hand. She sends out little exhales through her parted lips, a small snore, as if she were caught mid-sentence before passing out.

She was lying to me when she said she wouldn’t get behind on her work. I know she was. And now she’s exhausted herself.

Has she been caring for me all night?

I swallow, watching as the sun filters through the window of the front door, illuminating her blond hair splayed across the sheets. Her nail polish, alternating each finger between mint green and pastel pink and baby blue, is chipped as usual. Little shimmers of dust motes sparkle around her head. I smile to myself.

I’ve never been a big believer in heaven. Not after my parents. Not after losing Robin. But if I did believe, if I did think that there was a reason for most things, I might—just maybe—believe that Beverly Alice Lark is an angel dropped to this earth just for me.

I lean forward, bending at the waist to cup the curve of her jaw. So soft. So delicate. So unfit for my calloused hands and ragged exhales with too much smoke as a teen and too much recklessness in my twenties. But I’m caught in her, selfishness and all.