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The weight of that knowledge settles heavily within me.I believed I would have plenty of time with him, but now, I only have a few hours, maybe minutes, before he decides this is over.
For now, though, we’d stick with breakfast.
ChapterTwelve
Greyson
After I hangup with Dad, I text my siblings.
Grey: Most of you might already be aware, but I’m in Luna Harbor with Sanford.
Tuck: Zeke and Ethan are on their way to Luna Harbor, in case you need your sponsor.
I suppress an urge to groan.Their concern, though well-intentioned, feels smothering.How do I convince them I’m capable of holding my own?
“Why don’t we sit down?”Sanford’s voice breaks into my thoughts, the clink of a plate being set on the table punctuating his words.“You can leave after breakfast.”
Honest to God, every instinct screams at me to bolt, right at this moment.I should flee from the raw emotion swirling in the room.But then I look at him, really look at him, and see the broken edges of his soul, much like mine.I saw it earlier, when I held the frame.It’s the first time he’s shown me some vulnerability.The first time he’s confessed that he also hurts.
Leaving him alone isn’t an option.Not when he needs someone to hold while he reads that forsaken book.
My gaze lands on the memoir sitting on the table.“I’ll stay for as long as you need me to.”
His smile, that disarming curve of the lips that hides a world of hurt, reappears.“Thank you.That means a lot to me.”
I sink into the chair, cradling the mug of coffee in my hands.The aroma of freshly brewed beans fills my senses as I take a sip, then open the book, my eyes skimming over the foreword.When I finish, I glance at him.“It can’t be her.That doesn’t sound like Enya.”
“Our ballerina only had one sister,” he reminds me.
I nod, because that much is true and the only way to figure out how this happened is by reading the book.“Chapter one ...‘In times of hardship, I close my eyes and reminisce about the beautiful moments that brought me joy.It reminds me that happiness is possible again, unknown,’” I read the quote out loud, mustering some courage to continue.
ChapterThirteen
“In times of hardship, I close my eyes and reminisce about the beautiful moments that brought me joy.It reminds me that happiness is possible again.”—Unknown
I’ve always struggledto write down my thoughts in journals or diaries.It’s not like I lived in the moment, looking forward to what lay ahead.But I preferred to capture them through pictures.Images taken by my phone that I can store for as long as they mattered.
But after my family was destroyed, I realized the importance of capturing life’s highs and lows, both big and small.When the nightmares invaded my waking hours, I wished there was a place where I could turn and remember the simple and happy times.
After the tragedy that destroyed us, we lost pictures, mementos, and ...so much more.Oh, how I wished to have something I could hold on to.A place where I could immerse myself into the past.A way to remember that not everything had been a clusterfuck, and that we were happy.
If only I could just recall the trivial moments back when I was growing up by looking at a photograph or reading my journal.
Sadly, this realization came a little too late.However, my younger sister came to the rescue with a simple gift: a brand-new pink notebook and a sparkly pen.Her idea was that if I couldn’t bring myself to talk about the overwhelming sorrow we both experienced, I could write it down.Spell each one of my darkest thoughts in a dusted pink journal that will neutralize the horrors of what we lived.
I never understood how she could find the silver lining, make lemon sorbet out of lemons or just find the light at the end of the tunnel.She wanted me to bury my demons in paper so I could be free.
Her idea was scary, like staring into an endless dark pit.It took me days to gather the courage to write on those blank pages.But when I finally did, instead of focusing on the scary stuff, I decided to bring back a few happy memories from our childhood.Those memories, which seemed ordinary back then, turned out to be special.
They reminded me of a time when our family was complete and untouched by the storm that later tore us apart.As I pry open the cover of the blush-toned notebook, my pen poised above the dotted canvas, the first memory that came to mind was from when I was eight.It was the beginning of a summer that felt different from the usual gray days in Washington State.It was vibrant and sunny, like a breath of fresh air.
My mother stood by the kitchen counter of our Tuscan-style kitchen.The morning sun playfully danced on her auburn locks, making me hope that I would grow up to be just like her.We shared the same hair color and amber eyes, unlike my sister, whose dark brown hair and eyes resembled the inky night sky.With grace, my mother held a travel mug in one hand while the other expertly held the coffee pot.
A smile laced with resignation graced her lips.My father was going away on another business trip.She hated it when he was away, but never told him so.
My little sister, a curious three-year-old sprite, sat at the head of the breakfast table, her tiny spoon making noises against the ceramic bowl.
“Eat more, play less,” Dad teased her, punctuating his command with a gentle tickle and a loving peck atop her giggling head.Her laughter bounced off through the room, a sweet melody everyone cherished in the house.
