She nods.
If I wait long enough, she’ll probably fall asleep. But I don’t want to risk making her cry before that. Grabbing a bunny isn’t the end of the world.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
I pad across the hall, which is ridiculous because Everett’s out in his soundproof studio. The glass handle turns with the twist of my wrist, and I flick on the light to his room.
It looks the same as the last time I saw it.Smellsthe same too.
I spot the bunny right away, an ear flopped over the edge of the nightstand. When I pull it from the surface, it exposes a notebook, cursive handwriting scrawled in blue ink across thepage. At a quick glance, the only specifics I catch are numbers… eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine.
I peek at it again. They continue on, nearly reaching the bottom of the page.
I should walk away. I got what I came in here for. But Everett’s so closed off sometimes. So withdrawn. It would be nice to have some idea of what he’s thinking.
One line, I convince myself. That’s all I’ll read, and then I’ll leave.
87. Don’t use the pull tabs when putting on her favorite pink boots.
I read another.
88. Throw out the pancake batter. Stick to cereal.
What is this?My eyes fuse to the page.
89. Use detangler on her hair when she gets out of the bath.
90. Don’t bathe her before school.
Suddenly I’m picking up the notebook. My fingers are glued to the pages.It’s a list.
I’m flipping back to the beginning. Searching for number one. When I find it, I choke back emotion at what I read next.
Mistakes I Won’t Make Twice
1. Hold her when she cries.
2. Read her a bedtime story.
3. Kiss her ouchie when she gets hurt.
4. Tell her mommy’s coming home soon, even if she isn’t.
5. Sing if she needs you to.
I’m drinking in this list like it’s water in the desert sun. Afraid if I don’t finish it, the world as I know it will cease to exist.
“Summa,” Quinn whines from across the hall, and I snap the journal shut. Fling it on the nightstand and flee the room. I stall in the hall, swiping at my eyes and hiding theevidence that I’ve been crying. Then I pop the bunny’s head from beyond the doorframe and hear her giggle.
“Bunny!” she squeals.
Bunny gets tucked under the covers just like Quinn. She snuggles her cheek against its soft fur.
“Da-eee home soon?” she asks.
I have to swallow to keep myself from crying. “Yep. Your daddy is going to finish writing a song for you, and then he’s going to come in and give you a kiss, okay?”
A happy little sigh leaves her lips, and a dreamy look paints her face. She’s gazing up at me; I’m gazing down at her. I swipe the hair from her eyes. Ones that tell a story of devotion. A look that says I’m beginning to mean as much to her as she is to me.
