Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
The feel of my fingers being wedged open causes me to also open my eyes. Even when pain clouds her hazel eyes, her soul shines through.
She kisses the palm of my hand and then rests her cheek on it. Closing her eyes, she says, “The report states that my mom came home.”
“The report?”
She lifts her head and nods. “I’d lost so much blood.”
“And passed out?”
“I was dying, Cooper, and all I could think about was the smell of the carpet. Lavender. She used to sprinkle it on the carpet and then vacuum.” She holds her head. “Sorry. Sometimes the memories come when I least expect them. Anyway, the doctors said I was lucky to have survived because my femoral artery was spared from damage. I don’t consider myself lucky when I think back on that night.”
She’s breaking my heart, but I feel selfish for even having that thought. It’s not fair to her, the real victim in all this. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Her hand flattens over the physical wound, but she’s right. The internal pain is still fresh. “I survived, but my mom didn’t. She fought, though,” Story says, adamantly, looking up at me. “She fought for me. I was losing so much blood. There was so much blood . . . I remember watching him throw her like a rag doll, and I was helpless to save her. He threw her like she wasn’t a person, like she wasn’t a woman, like she wasn’t my mom. He threw her like she didn’t matter.” A stifling breath is taken and then she adds, “She mattered to me.”
“I know, babe. I know,” I whisper. She’s been eerily calm for the most part, but that last part had her voice shaken. She wraps her arms around herself and then leans against me as quiet sobs rock her body.
Holding her so tight, I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Story.”
“The neighbors called the police, but I passed out before they arrived.” Her tone trembles, but she slowly pushes off me to stand. With the water lowering and her body dripping, the scar is on display in front of me—not for effect, but for her to breathe easier as she pulls herself together again.
“I survived.” Her words come back as a haunted memory. She’s doing more than surviving. She’s changed the course of her life. She’s fucking amazing.
Taking a towel, she wraps it around her frame. “I’m cold,” she says, shivering.
I nod, taking her hand so she can get out without slipping. When I stand and cover myself with the other towel, I step out and start drying off. I need to pace, to think, to do anything but sit here doing nothing.
“I never saw my mom again. I woke up in a hospital bed with my leg wrapped after surgery. They pieced my leg back together again, but I’m told she was found with shards of glass from the front door in her back. Though somehow, she was on the couch when they arrived.” Exhaling loudly, she tempers her expressions, trying so hard to hold herself together.
“What happened?”
The stiffness of her spine loosens, and she rocks back but catches herself against the counter. Her arms cover her stomach as she bends over. “I . . . I never saw her again—not alive or dead. She just vanished from the earth and my life that night.” Sinking to her knees, she curls over, crying. “I never got to hug her again or tell her that I was sorry for borrowing her favorite pair of shorts or that . . .”
I cover her with my body, hugging her. “Story . . . God, Story, it’s not your fault. You have to believe me.”
She looks up at me. “I never got to tell her I love her again. She was messed up, but she was my mess of a mother, Cooper.”
“I know. I know, babe.” It could have been a minute or ten, for all I know. We’ve lost track of time in here.
When her tears subside again, she says, “He was found dead in his truck from a self-inflicted wound. The coward.” Her strength strikes like lightning and then settles into the dust of the memory.
I’ve never felt more like an asshole than after hearing her story. I have trust fund issues at worst when she’s lucky to be alive.
I’m not sure what to do but holding her again feels right. Her arms come around, and she starts crying again. “Let it go. You don’t have to hold it in any longer,” I whisper.
Pink streaks stain her cheeks, and a soft laugh escapes. “I bet you wish you would have never come into that coffee shop that day.” She smiles, but it’s full of embarrassment. Her eyes leveled on my stomach like she’s facing regret.