Page 62
Big, dominant, pushy, motherfucker.
When I got back from dropping Dallas off at school, something kept tugging me toward that damned sketchbook. But just as strong as the pull was whatever kept holding me back.
By the third trip into the dresser—just standing there, staring at it like it might jump off the shelf—I let out a growl of frustration and stormed out, headed straight for the bakery.
I walk in and call for Sophie but she doesn’t answer and after heading back into the kitchen I find her talking in a hushed tone on the phone. She sees me, pales, and ends the call.
“What the hell was that about?” I demand, tension already coiled tight in my gut.
She takes her glasses off and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Nothing,” she says a little too quickly. “ Just someone calling to cancel their order.”
I loop my arm around her shoulders. “People fucking suck.”
She gives me a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Yeah, they do.”
She slides her glasses back on, and for a second I almost press—almost ask who it really was, what that look was about. But I let it go.
“How are you holding up?” she asks instead, shifting the weight off herself and placing it gently back on me.
I could give my sister the superficial answer, but I know she’d fucking see right through it.
“Where do you want me to start? With the fact he broke into daddy’s office for my sketchbook or where he strung me up like a wild animal and didn’t fuck me, but made me come?”
Sophie stands there a full second or two resembling a fish out of water before speaking, “That didn’t take long.”
I drag in a deep breath, letting the smell of vanilla and butter wrap around me like a comfort I don’t deserve, then climb up onto the stainless steel counter and plant my ass there like I belong. “I think we all knew it wouldn’t.”
She studies me for a long, quiet beat. That kind of sister stare that strips the armor clean off. Then finally, softly, “So, your sketchbook?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
She waits, giving me room to unpack what I’m really feeling. I swallow hard. “My fingers itch to draw, to spill out this God damn clusterfuck of feelings swirling inside me. But mostly…it just rips open the hole Daddy left, and I miss him like hell.”
I wipe the tears off my face on the back of my hand. Yeah, we might’ve had the world’s shittiest mother—but damn if Murphy Wright didn’t make up for it by being the best damn dad the world ever saw.
She meets my eyes, voice cracking like it’s carrying its own weight. “Do you know…I used to just sit there, watching you two draw, and I’d be so damn jealous? Not because you had some crazy talent, but because I wanted that. I wanted something real like that with him.”
Sophie lets out a breath of a laugh, more sadness than humor. “One time, he caught me tearing up one of your sketchbooks—just ripping page after page, sobbing so hard I could barely see. I was so sure he’d be mad.”
She pauses, eyes glassy, voice barely hanging on. “But he didn’t say anything. Just sat down beside me, quiet and steady, like he could carry the silence for me. Waited until I’d worn myself out. Then he asked, ‘Do you feel better, baby girl?’”
Her laugh is soft and shaky. “And I cried harder, because of course I didn’t. But he—” Her voice catches.
Sophie wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “He just pulled me in and said, ‘We don’t have to fix it right now, baby girl. Sometimes we just breathe through the wreckage ‘til—’”
“Something soft grows back,” I finish, and my arms wrap around my middle like I’m trying to hold something in. Or keep something from spilling out. The ache swells so big in my chest it steals the breath right out of me. For a second, I swear I can feel him—just the shape of his love, the way it used to wrap around us when the world got too heavy.
“I think you’ve used Daddy’s death like a shield—to push anything good or real out of your life. And after the hysterectomy, you wrapped yourself tighter in that pain, letting it root you deep in this infestation of hurt and that twisted lie that you’re not enough. I’ll never truly understand what it’s like to lose the chance to have kids…I can’t even begin to imagine how deep that cuts.”
She reaches out, her hand finding mine, fingers curling around like a lifeline. “But maybe…finally sketching again will help you face that clusterfuck of feelings—because hope doesn’t come easy. It takes root slowly, fragile as hell. But if you let it, maybe something softer can grow from all this self-inflicted destruction.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, sinking deep into the parts I’ve tried to bury. My throat tightens, and I can barely whisper, “I’m scared. Scared if I let it all out, there won’t be anything left. Just…emptiness.”
My eyes don’t meet hers when I add, quieter still, “None of this is real, Soph. Not really. We’re just playing house.”
Sophie snaps back without missing a beat, “Then you my sister are a damn idiot.” She leans in, eyes blazing, “It’s not emptiness. It just feels that way when everything inside you is too heavy to move. And don’t try to kid yourself, nothing going on in those four walls is pretend. Not one fucking thing.”
Well, fuck me.
