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“Oh-kay,” she says, each syllable slow—perplexed. “I don’t—”
I slit my eyes and say my truth aloud. Something about Meredith Porter makes you want to confess all your sins and secrets. “Once, when I was a kid, I stole my mother’s old diary.”
“Levi!” she belts, like I’ve broken a holy commandment of some kind…huh, I guess I did.
“Yeah. Not my greatest moment in life. I was twelve, and I wanted to know why Matt left.” I skirt my eyes her way. “My dad.”
“Right,” she says. Not appalled, but sad.
“Yeah. I didn’t understand most of what I’d read.”
“What did she write?” Meredith’s body seems to gravitate closer to mine, our arms brush as we walk, her skin sending a tingling spin into my gut.
“Something about how if she had to choose, thechildor Matt, she’d choose the child.” I think about those words all the time. But I’d misinterpreted them for so long. For sixteen years. “I always assumed she meant me. That he left because of me. And she didn’t have him or help or support because ofme.” I swallow—did I just say all of that out loud?
Meredith Porter, ladies and gentlemen, skilled at befriending mothers, baking cookies, and making you confess your deepest, darkest secrets.
I clear my throat. “It was dumb.”
Meredith’s fingers wind around my right wrist and our tapping feet slow. “It isn’t dumb. It’s painful and confusing. You said you had assumed. But now—”
“Now I know she meant Coco. Mom was pregnant. That’s why he left. They were kids, hardly able to take care of one baby and soon there would be two. The crazy thing is, for sixteen years, I thought thatchildwas me. And it brought me so much guilt. I thought I’d cost her so much. But knowing it’s Coco.” I shake my head. “It just makes me angry. How could he do that to her? To us? How could he be so selfish?”
Meredith’s fingers trail up to my elbow, soft and whispering, like a butterfly kiss, producing goose bumps all over my skin. “What does that have to do with today?”
“She wrote it on April twenty-second. They argued and he left—on that day. I have taken a sabbatical every April twenty-second, ever since I started working.”
Her hand falls. “You mean, you’ve taken a day to pout?”
I exhale and it comes out like a grumble from my chest. But she isn’t wrong. “Sort of.”
Meredith stops—though we’re in the middle of crossing a busier street. This isn’t the greatest place to take a pause. “No more, Levi Bailey. No more! Today, you take April twenty-second off to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” I scoff. What would I celebrate?
She clamps down on her bottom lip, her left hand resting on her hip as she thinks. A couple of cars roll up, stopping as we’re right in their way.
“Okay, not exactly celebrating—”
“Mer.” I take one step and wave her on. “We need to move.”
“But not a day for guilt.” She nods, still thinking over what she’s trying to say. But not at all thinking about the car that’s now laying on its horn.
“Meredith,” I grumble. The woman won’t move.
“I’m serious. No more guilt, Levi.”
“Mer—” I start, but as she shows zero signs of movement, I wrap my arms about her hips and scoop her up, laying her over one shoulder. Meredith’s body bobs over my shoulder as I charge to the other side of the street. I move my hands up to her waist and set her back on her feet. This time–on the sidewalk, where she will hopefully remain in one piece.
“Hey,” she moans, brushing a hand down her pink sleeveless workout top. “What was—” The first car’s horn is still yelling at her as it zooms past us. “Ah,” she hums, watching the cars zoom off.
I cross my arms, pretend I’m not still reflecting on how she felt in my arms, and say, “You were saying?”
“Um.” She looks past me to two more cars driving down the street. “Right.” She licks her lips and clears her throat. “No more purposely planned guilt days. Today, we play.”
19
Meredith
