When some semblance of calm settled over my drained body, I dragged a hand through my hair and about to climb back into the car, I glanced over my shoulder, at the road I’d come down, one last time. “Goodbye, Shay,” I whispered.
If only you were mine...
29. Breathe Again – Toni Braxton
Skye – 21 years; Shay33 years
Wiping the water from my eyes, I slid open the shower door and listened, sure I’d heard the phone ring. I waited for a moment or two then finished with my evening bath and the only time I had to myself.
Ten minutes later, my tired body draped in a fluffy gown, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and padded down to the other bedroom. Inside, I tiptoed further into the quiet room draped in the blue shadows of a lava lamp on the nightstand. My lips curved in a smile that was always quick to form when I entered, I watched his even breathing. One leg thrown over the covers, a hand around his head and the other on his stomach, he slept.
Three years ago, I forced my heart and legs to walk away from Shay, accepting that part of my life was over. Like I told him, I trusted fate, she always knew how to play her hand. And she did. While she took him away from me, she’d not only given me something precious in return, she’d also given me my will to live, for him—my gorgeous baby boy.
There was little similarity to Shay but when my baby opened his eyes, someone with enough interest with gauge the resemblance between father and son. With silvery blonde hair and intelligent gray eyes, fate had blessed him with a beautiful combination of his parents.
I leaned down and kissed his brow, inhaling his baby smell. “Good night, sweetheart.”
He stirred, his little fingers cupping my face in his sleepy state before he turned on his side and nodded off again. Smiling, I brushed a hand through his hair and leaving the door ajar, I went back to mine. When I slid under the covers, sleep wouldn’t come.
I tossed and turned for a full fifteen minutes, unsure why I was suddenly so restless. I couldn’t shake the feeling I needed to do something. Annoyed, I got up, slipped on my robe and went down to warm myself a glass of milk.
“Can’t sleep, either?”
I turned as Paris, my roommate of one week, walked further into the kitchen. Her dark hair in large curlers, curvaceous body in a pink sleepshirt, she leaned against the counter.
“All settled in,” I asked.
Stranded in the coffee shop after a storm rolled in from the sea, I was forced to settle in with a good book and a cappuccino. Then the door flew open, and Paris blew inside in a flustered state of windswept hair, soaked clothes and a face wet with a mixture of tears and rain. Much later and after three cups of coffee between us, I found out her boyfriend cheated on her with her mother. Upset, she’d packed all her belongings in her little car and just drove for miles until the storm forced her to seek refuge in our town.
I had no idea why I did it but when morning finally sent the howling rains packing, I had myself a new roommate. Three years younger than me, she was a bundle of energy, both in spirit and personality.
“Yeah, I guess all the walking today made me so tired, I can’t sleep.” Her laugh sounded like a musical note. “But it paid off.” She’d gone job hunting.
“Really?”
“I met the local realtor, and he offered me a job, starting tomorrow.” During our initial meet, she’d mentioned having worked at a real estate office as a receptionist but wanted to become an agent one day.
