We stop for gas.
We keep going.
Not a word passes between us.
I don’t know what I’d say anyway.
Rain falls, the skies darken again, and we keep going.
Then, finally, Guy speaks.
“It took a week for my wife to die,” he says, and I lift my head to watch him in the rearview. He keeps his eyes on the road, the darkness ahead. “She had stomach pains, and when I took her in, they said she didn’t have much time left. Cancer … it’s a fucking nasty son of a bitch.” He pauses, tapping the steering wheel. “Ella was nine, and the day we buried her, she cried so much I didn’t know what to do. I’ve always kind of winged it as a dad, but that day … I was truly lost.” He pulls up on the side of the road, and I hear the familiar loading of a firearm. Rain taps against the car, and I listen to the last story I’ll ever hear, and I’m glad it’s about her. “Everyone said to give her time, but what kind of advice is that to give? What did I do in the time between her mother dying and her accepting it? Ignore her cries? I couldn’t. One day, I panicked and asked if she wanted to bake with me.” He laughs, then sniffs, wiping away a tear. “Her mom baked sometimes, so I guess that’s why I thought of it. To my surprise, Ella said yes, and it went horribly wrong. We burned the cookies, broke the bowl, set off the fire alarm … but she laughed so damn hard.”
I smile. “I can imagine that.”
He nods, then falls silent for a few seconds. “The first time a boy broke her heart, we baked again. When her first book submission was rejected, she turned up at my door with tears and ingredients. Baking is our thing.” Headlights fill the rearview, and I turn to look at the car behind me, but the lights are too bright. “That’s what she’ll need when she’s sad.”
I face him again, my heart lurching up my throat. “What?”
His eyes meet mine in the rearview. “Now you know what it’s like to lose her. Do everything in your power never to feel this way again.”
I throw the door open and step out in the rain.
And there she is.
Her hair is already wet. Her cheeks are red. She’s in her leggings and sweatshirt that I’ve seen her in a thousand times.
Alive.
So goddamn alive.
She runs to me, I think she calls out my name, and I lift her into my arms.
Life sparks inside of me.
And as Ella clings to me, she sobs, and I do, too. I bury my face in her shoulder and cry for everything I thought I’d lost, for a life I wanted so desperately.
A life I’m about to get.
“You’re crushing me,” she squeaks, and I set her on her feet, cupping her face. She smiles a smile I never thought I’d see again. “Hey.”
“Hey? Fuck you, ‘hey’.” I kiss her and she laughs againstmy mouth, tears and rain on her face. “You’re here. You’re really fucking here.” I pull her against me again, soaking up her warmth, her embrace, everything about Ella Gibson.
“Did you wish for me, Gable Flynn?” she whispers in my ear.
Every. Damn. Day.
Chapter 50
Ella
“Happy Death Day to me!” I pull the string on the party popper, colorful confetti bursting free and landing on Gable’s head.
His glare could melt glass, but I keep grinning.
“This is not funny.”
“Yes, it is!” I insist, climbing onto his lap as he sits on the couch, the first draft of my latest book in his lap. It’s the sequel toCleaners, and the plan is to say my dad “discovered” it while clearing out my things. He’ll send it to my old agent, and dead Ella can get another bestseller. “Say Happy Death Day.” Gable continues glaring at me. “If you don’t, it’s bad luck.”
