Smiling, I tilt my face back, replaying the nights we’ve spent together, each touch and caress. The man has ruined my plans of leaving that’s for sure.
I hurry through the rest of the folding, then swap the washer load into the dryer intent on spending the rest of the afternoon with Ms. Sullivan and my journal.
The words pouring from my heart have been different in the past few weeks. They flow easier and are more spirit lifting. I want to write, not because I need an outlet, but because I have these new feelings bubbling up inside of me and they want to burst out.
I never told Noah about the vandalized poem. Pretty sure I lost it when I fell into the water. After we were together, I checked my pants, and it was gone. It was probably for the best. We’d just shared a breakthrough moment and the last thing Iwanted to do was bring it crashing down with my worry over those two extra words.
Nothing has happened like that again since then, and at this point, I think it’s safe. I let it go.
I fiddle with the chain around my neck. Wearing this is empowering—somethingItook fromhimthat night, but I’m not sure I need its power anymore. It’s coming from a well deep within me and I’m taking my life back.
Tucking the necklace behind the front collar of my sweatshirt, I close the dryer and take off down the hallway, depositing folded laundry in their designated rooms. Finished, I turn toward the sliding glass doors, stopping short of the threshold to study Ms. Sullivan.
She sits in the new wooden chair with a blanket draped over her thin shoulders despite the sun today. The streams of light catch the fine silver strands mixed in with her tawny hair as the wind gently lifts them in the breeze. She looks paler today, skin fragile and paper-thin. As she reaches for her glass of lemonade, her hand trembles, and I rush to help steady her grasp of the glass.
She breathes, deep and slow, eyeing me. “Thank you,” she says.
“No problem.” I pull up the other chair close to her and plop down. Then I let out the world’s longest sigh.
She chuckles. “You’re too young to sigh that heavy. Your crewneck matches the sky today.”
Her swift change of subject gives me pause, but I nod with a “hmm” and tilt my face back, exposing it to the beating sun and the scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with the hay the neighbors put out for the horses.
The hiss of Ms. Sullivan’s oxygen spurts and spittles, and I peek out of one eye to see her own eyes closed, a faint smile touching her lips.
It’s so peaceful here.
“Is Noah coming over tonight?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m not sure. I want to say he and Max are on duty tonight.”
She lets out a contemplative noise.
“He plans on being here for New Year’s Eve, though. Told me himself he’s planning on making some kind of crack dip.”
“That shit’ll give him a heart attack. He doesn’t normally eat that way.”
“My fault.” I raise my hand, then quickly put it down. “I was explaining a dip my mom used to make me and my brothers for football games. I couldn’t remember the name. He told me it sounded like crack dip he had growing up, and now he’s set on making some. I’m sure he’ll bring seven veggie platters to make up the difference.”
Ms. Sullivan struggles to sit up while the breeze moves through the nearby trees with an even louder sigh than I let out minutes ago.
“You and him … have gotten close the past few weeks.”
I swallow. We have. Really close. I sort through the right words—was I supposed to tell her? Or ask her permission? Certainly not. She’s not that type of mother, and clearly, she’s seen the signs. Noah has openly kissed me in front of her when he leaves the house at night, and we’ve been out of the house for my dates lately. My eyes widen. Oh no. Should I have had an actual conversation with her?
“Don’t shit your pants. I can’t breathe, I’m not blind. I’m not going to give you some my-son’s-too-good-for-you speech, so take a damn breath.”
My shoulders slump after she says that, but I’m cautious, curious even. Whatdoesshe think of us? Ofmewithherson? The distant rustling of leaves is the only sound as the silence stretches on.
“Oh,” I manage to get out.
“There are some perks to being on one’s death bed, one being I get to say whatever the hell I want.”
I let out a burst of laughter that echoes along the backside of the house. My hands fidget in my laps as her gaze softens from that playful expression to something more serious.
“You love my son.” It’s not a question. There isn’t even an inflection in her frail voice.
“I do.” Might as well be honest. The man has driven me to fall in love with him and Max.
