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Summer hesitates, staring down at me. Her eyes still look red and irritated from crying earlier, but the soft brown of her irises shines through. The sudden urge to capture her hand and tug her into my lap so I can hug her again is almost too strong to tamp down. I pull my notebook from my back pocket, clutching it with both hands to keep the reflex at bay.
Seeming to make up her mind about something, Summer nods, then strolls farther down the path. I’m glad she’s still in sight when she comes to a stop. The idea of her wandering this place without me at her side causes a tightening in my chest.
Something like fear.
I want her safe. I want her happy.
I want her.
For now though, I’ll take these bits she’s willing to give.
Summer’s mouth moves, but the words are lost over the distance. I avert my eyes, giving her the privacy she asked for.
How much hurt must she deal with, with thoughts of her dead father assaulting her all day?
Sometimes I wish my mom was dead. I’m glad I’ve never been one to blurt out my thoughts because I can only guess how hurtful that wish would be for Summer to hear. Her father is gone from existence, while my mother still lives and breathes. Where she does those activities, I have no idea.
But if she had died, if that was the reason I grew up without her, I doubt I’d have to deal with so much resentment chewing away at my gut whenever I think about her.
Uncomfortable with the familiar anger and depression gnawing at my insides, I shove away thoughts of the woman who never loved me. Instead, I gaze around the creepy, beautiful graveyard, and consider it as a setting in my story.
Lost in my writing, I’m not sure how much time has passed when a light tap hits my shoulder. Glancing up, I find Summer with new tracks of tears tracing paths across her cheeks. Moving purely on instinct, I drop my notebook on the bench and stand, my hands reaching to cup her face. My thumbs stroke across her soft skin, wiping away the dampness.
“You ready to go?” A friend shouldn’t be cradling her like this, but she hasn’t pushed me away. She seems to be in a dazed state of grief. My hands fall to my sides, not wanting to take advantage.
“Is something wrong with me? This shouldn’t still hurt this much, should it?” Summer rubs a fist against her breastbone, as if the spot is sore and she’s trying to soothe it.
I bend to retrieve my notebook, shoving it in my back pocket, then making the conscious decision to tuck Summer under my arm, guiding her back to the truck.
“Nothing is wrong with you, Summer. Absolutely nothing.”
Chapter Sixteen
SUMMER
The day is still dismal, but talking to the memory of my father eased the sharp edges of my pain. My insides no longer feel cut up, shredded, and raw. Now there’s only a soreness. An ache that throbs in time with the beat of my heart.
Today is a vocal heart day. The organ beats hard in my chest and demands attention. My heart commands that I fix it. Absentmindedly, I tap a finger on my breastbone as if knocking on a door.
I’m sorry I can’t fix you. Tomorrow you won’t hurt as much.
“Where to now?” Cole drives one-handed, and that grip is loose and assured. His other elbow rests on the sill of the open window. Wind ruffles his dirty blonde hair, emphasizing his slightly uneven cut. The sight of his messy locks would put my mother on edge.
Of course, not as much as his tattoos and piercings and fuck-the-world demeanor.
Mom would hate Cole before even talking to him.
And that thought annoys me. It pisses me off.
Then guilt assails me at the realization I’m thinking bad thoughts about my last surviving parent, a woman who loves me more than anyone else in the world.
And now I feel like a crappy daughter.
Maybe this is another reason to add to the pile of why the two of us don’t grieve together. The first few years we set aside this day to spend with each other, thinking it might be like it is on TV, where everyone holds hands and shares happy memories about their lost loved one.
But we just cried, amplifying each other’s misery by being walking, talking reminders of the man we both lost. Then we’d fight over stupid things and cry some more because we got mad at each other.
Once I moved out to live on my own, we came to an understanding. We’d grieve our own ways, and the day after we’d get together for dinner and wine. Lots of wine.
