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I shake my head and take the last step on my own. I’ve become an orphan, not an invalid. As I stand in the foyer, I do everything in my power not to look to my right where the living room is. I don’t think I’ll be able to step inside that room for the rest of my life. All it holds now is memories of me finding my lifeless father’s body on the couch.
“Do you want something to eat?” Logan interjects, placing his body between me and that horrid room, sensing exactly where my thoughts were headed.
“Some tea would be nice,” I rasp as I make my way to the kitchen.
My voice doesn’t even sound like my own. My throat is still hoarse from all the crying I’ve done. I never imagined someone had the ability to cry for such a long duration of time. It felt like it was an endless well of suffering determined to be purged out of me, whether I consented to it or not.
When I get into the kitchen, I see that Quaid is just finishing up making breakfast.
“Quaid, our girl here wants some tea. Can you fix her a mug?” Carter winks at me as he pulls up a chair for me to sit down and then takes the one right beside me.
“Sure thing. Chamomile, okay?” Quaid asks, trying to sound upbeat, but his voice is just as strained as my own.
I feel Logan’s fingers run through my hair lovingly as he stands behind me, and for a split second, I almost give in to his touch, wanting to close my eyes and lean against him just to relish in his care. However, I resist the tempting thought. No doubt I’ll just end up crying some more and end up being locked right back in my room again, wondering what did I ever do to piss off karma so much that it’s determined to ruin every speck of joy I have.
“Do you want me to make some toast?” Quaid questions as he places two plates for Logan and Carter stocked with pancakes and bacon. I shake my head no, the smell of food nauseating my stomach instantly.
I look at my green-eyed boy for a minute as he gives me my tea mug, but then look away, preferring the view to our backyard instead of his majestic face.
It hurts looking at Quaid.
I see all my suffering reflected in his tender eyes, even though he’s trying his best not to show it. I know Logan and Carter are suffering with me, or more precisely, for me. Quaid, however, is not only sharing in my pain, he’s living through his own. Quaid loved my father just as much as I did. Logan and Carter cared for him, had a world of respect for him, maybe even saw him as family to a point.
But Quaid?
Quaid lost a father just like I did.
“I see you took a shower,” Logan states, still twirling his finger around one lock of hair.
I nod, words still difficult for me to articulate.
Quaid fills my mug with the chamomile tea he made, and I grab onto it with both hands. It may be the height of summer, but still, this hot beverage is just what I need. I sip at it, my gaze still drawn outside, as all three boys have their meal.
“Do you want to do something today?” Carter asks, his broad frame leaning against the sink after placing his empty plate in it.
I shake my head.
“Not even go out for a walk? It’s beautiful outside.”
“Is it?” I mumble, not really able to see the beauty he’s talking about.
I know the sun is shining brightly, and I can hear the birds happily chirping away, yet I don’t register any beauty whatsoever. I’m numb to it all, and I worry that I will never be able to feel again.
“What do you want to do, Valentina?” Logan asks.
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Right now, all I want is to finish my tea. Is that okay?”
Carter comes over to me, pressing his lips to my temple, and again, a soothing balm seems to take over, even if just for a second.
“How about we go to the yard to finish that tea?” Logan interjects, squeezing my hand beside me and throwing me what has become a rare smile.
“Sure,” I reply, trying to give him one of my own, but it comes out awkward.
Logan clasps his hand with mine, pulling me up from my chair, while Carter picks up my mug to take outside. Before I reach the kitchen door, I look over my shoulder and see that Quaid is still rooted to his spot.
“Don’t you want to come?”
He shakes his head, his eyes glued to the floor, wringing his hands around a dishcloth.
