Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Because the truth is, I don’t know what to say.
Because I don’t know yet if I even want to say it.
Autumn hums to herself now, a tuneless little song, yogurt dripping from her spoon, and I smile at her cute little face.
“Bee sing!” she demands. “Sing, Bee!”
I don’t hesitate to dive right into her demand. “Old MacDonald had a farm…” I start, pausing long enough for her to join in.
“E-I-E-I-O!” she shouts, clapping her hands excitedly.
Her joy is infectious, and before I know it, we’re both going through all the farm animals together, Autumn giggling and smiling and clapping the entire time.
We manage three rounds of “Old MacDonald” and five rounds of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and considering how I spent my weekend, it’s a miracle I’m capable of keeping up with her pace without yawning.
Friday night, I stayed at Tad’s. And last night, I went to his house but came back to Bennett’s at three in the morning because I promised Norah I’d watch Autumn today.
Neither she nor Bennett has asked me any questions about where I’ve been disappearing to at night, but I’m not naïve. They have to know. I mean, I’ve been caught by both of them in the walk of shame act a few times at this point. But they haven’t said anything. Besides the one morning I came home and Bennett was up with Autumn, my brother hasn’t asked me any more questions about my late-night whereabouts.
Maybe it’s out of respect. Maybe it’s out of quiet amusement. Or maybe Norah read him the riot act and told him to stay out of my business.
I don’t know, but I’m not sure either of them would guess I’m spending my late-night free time in the hot sheep-farmer-next-door’s bed. Frankly, it’s not something the old me would’ve ever done. But I’m starting to wonder if she died the instant my father’s betrayal slapped me in the face from his grave.
I don’t know if this new version of Breezy is improved, but I know her body still hums from the memory of Tad last night—his laugh, his hands, the warm, reckless tangle of us that made the rest of the world blur out.
Whatever this casual fling thing is that we’re doing, it’s safe to say it’s working. Maybe a little too well.
And still, as much as I love the way Tad makes me forget, mornings like this remind me how uncertain everything else still feels.
Honestly, I don’t know if this is real or if I’m just compartmentalizing.
Am I going to wake up one day hysterical, undone, unable to move without the galleries anchoring me?
Or is this strange, floaty reality of having no plan and no title actually what peace feels like?
I don’t know if I’ve ever had peace. But right now, watching Autumn grin with yogurt smeared across her nose, I think maybe I do.
“All dones, Bee!” Autumn cheers from her high chair, and I make quick work of wiping off her face, earning a few belly giggles as I do.
Once she’s back on her feet, she runs toward her favorite dollhouse in the corner of the living room and starts playing.
But only two minutes into playing, she pauses and yells, “Juice-y, Bee! Juice-y, Bee!”
“Do you want apple juice or grape juice, sweetie?”
“Aaa-pull!”
“You got it, girl,” I answer and grab the new cups Norah has been letting Autumn try to drink from because the pediatrician encouraged her to go lid-less.
A minute or two later, Autumn is all set up at the living room coffee table with her apple juice, a little bowl of Cheerios—an additional request while I was getting the juice—and her favorite kids’ show playing on the television.
And I head back into the kitchen to clean up our breakfast mess.
But I’m only a few dishes in when her little voice pulls my attention again.
“Uh-oh, Bee!” She’s looking down at her overturned cup of juice spilling across the table. Her big blue eyes are wide, and guilt blooms inside them. “I sowwy.”
Aw. My heart squeezes.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I say softly and head into the living room with a towel to clean up the mess. “Accidents happen sometimes, okay?” Once it’s all cleaned up, I tell her it’s okay again and give her forehead a little kiss.
Her relief is instant. She beams up at me, cheeks dimpling, and then holds out a Cheerio toward me like a peace offering. “For yous.”
“Thank you.” I take it with a smile and pop it into my mouth with exaggerated delight. “Yum. Best breakfast I’ve ever had.”
She giggles, and that sound might as well be music to my ears.
She grins wider. And that grin… I swear, it’s Summer’s grin, and it never fails to hit me like a sucker punch. Autumn never met her sister, but she’s a carbon copy of ringlet curls, blue eyes, and pure sunshine. I can see the bond they would have had—Summer putting her little sister in an all-pink princess outfit while playing dress-up, Summer bossing Autumn around with big-sister pride, and Autumn following her around in sparkly shoes.