“He is seven pounds, four ounces of perfect.” Amy keeps talking, looking directly at the screen, maybe even right into my soul. “I didn’t know perfect had a weight.” She grins, pulling the blanket away from the baby’s face. “But it does.”
Eric presses the pause button. “This is what you and I will do until someone you care about arrives.” He stops to consider something for a moment. “Actually, let’s make sure someone comes by tonight. What do you say?” Keeping the gun on me, he walks to the kitchen and grabs my phone off the counter.
“Let’s see…” Eric presses a few buttons, swipes, and talks into the phone’s microphone. “Come over. We need to talk.” He presses one more button and tosses the phone back onto the counter.
“Who was that?” Fear drips into my voice.
Eric walks back over to the table where the tablet sits. “It’ll be more fun if it’s a surprise.” He bends down, his finger hovering over the play button.
“Now we wait, and watch.”
An infant’s wail fills the room.
27
Connor
My high is gone.
Not completely, because I’m pretty damn proud of myself. As an indicator of a good night, I’m out of business cards. I sold three paintings, and I have more eyes on my work than ever before. I’m ready to paint until my hands go numb. Ideas bounce around my head but stay in bubble form. I can’t make any of them into a solid when I have Brynn penetrating my thoughts.
She never promised to say goodbye.
The thought saddens me, but it also makes me angry.
I fasten a smile on my face and wave to Candace as I leave the gallery. My parents left a while ago, after my mom made sure to tell everyone within earshot that I was her son. It was embarrassing, but I loved it. My dad’s couldn’t show his pride with his expressions, but his eyes are like windows. Through them, I saw his joy.
I hate that life took that turn for him. Capable hands turned impotent. His confident, assertive stride replaced by short, stiff steps.
Life doesn’t discriminate. It took happiness away from Brynn. One second she was driving, and the next she was drivingovertwo people.
How can one second, two seconds, three seconds, be that consequential? A blip, a blink, and somehow they carry the weight of forever. How can one second differ so completely from the next? Does my dad ever think of the moments before he noticed his symptoms, before he asked my mom to make an appointment for him? How often does Brynn remember what her life was like when she was climbing into her car that morning, and compare it to what it was when she got out of the driver’s seat?
I step out of the makeshift gallery into a day that is nearly night. The sun hangs low behind the trees, it’s darkening light filtering through the branches and casting shadows on the road. The heat of the day has tapered off, and the humidity retreats with the sun. I don’t usually pay close attention to the weather, but tonight I’m raw. I’m inside out, my heart exposed, and everything feels sharper.
I settle into my truck but can’t manage to point it toward my house. It’s stupid. So stupid. Brynn doesn’t want to say goodbye. She told me this would happen. She said it would be easier if one day I realized she was gone.
My thumb traces my lower lip, back and forth, thinking too hard about what to do.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, and turn on the truck. I didn’t fight when Desiree left. I didn’t even try, but Brynn is not Desiree.
Brynn is like ivy. She grew around me, slipping into crevices and wrapping around limbs. She infiltrated my body, permeated my insides, devoured my heart.
I didn’t fight for Desiree because I didn’t need her to breathe.
Brynnismy breath.
* * *
Her house is dark inside.Has she already left?
Now that I’m on Brynn’s street, I can’t make myself park and get out. My truck rolls on and I wipe a palm on my jeans. There’s only one other place where she could be right now. One other person getting the farewell she didn’t give to me.
“What do you want?” Walt grimaces at me when he opens his front door.
I don’t have time or patience for the old man tonight. “Where’s Brynn?” I bark. If I had the capacity for humor right now, I’d laugh about how I sound like Walt.
“She’s not here,” he says unwillingly, as if telling me she’s not there is a betrayal.
