Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
“I hope it works out like that,” she says, “I want you to stay, I’m just afraid to hope for it after all these years, you know? I understood why you left when you did, but it broke my heart. I’m lucky to get to see you guys when I can, but do me a favor,” she says. “If you’re not sure you’ll stay here, don’t tell me you will. I can’t go through that again.”
I sit with that. I need to think it over, how much my fear and selfishness has hurt my mom after she devoted her life to raising me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and then I trail off because sorry doesn’t cut it this time. I let the tears track down my face silently. She’s crying too, and she holds my hands in hers. I want to promise her I’ll never do that again, run away like a scared kid. I’m a grown up now, and I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. I’m excited for the life I’m starting with my son. Something stops me from reassuring her, however. Self-doubt or self-sabotage, I’m not sure, but I don’t want to overpromise and disappoint her.
I just say, “My plan is to stay here, enroll Liam in kindergarten and hopefully work full-time at Snip. Unless my fairy godmother shows up and gives me a low interest loan to open my own salon,” I joke, “I can’t think of anything that would make me want to relocate again, but I can promise to tell you what’s going on and if I start to freak out about anything, if I panic, I’ll talk to you about it. We can figure it out together. Does that work?”
“That works, baby girl,” she said, her face so sad and full of love.
4
BENNY
Isee the corner store, just like it used to be. Gino and I rode our bikes there practically every day in summer to get ice cream bars or big slushies. When my dad took over the business we moved out of the neighborhood, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had one of their frozen Cokes. I park across the street and head that way.
I’ve heard people say they feel like they’ve been struck by lightning when something shocks them. I always figured that was an exaggeration. Until I catch sight of her. I stand stock still in the middle of the street like my brain got blitzed by sudden voltage.
Last time I saw Daisy Cooper, she had a sunburn on her shoulders that was starting to peel and she was chewing cinnamon gum. She’d had on a pink tank top, her long wavy hair swept in a ponytail, big dark eyes faraway that last night. The next day she’d skipped town to move out west and didn’t return my calls.
Six years later, I’m getting honked at and flipped off by drivers as I stand in the middle of a busy street, my entire body arrested at the sight of her. The third person that honks lets out a stream of profanity questioning my intelligence. I turn toward the person and when they recognize me, they go silent.
“Shit,” I hear him mutter, “Sorry, man.” He tucks himself back into the driver seat and rolls up the window. It’s the effect I have on people who know the weight behind the Falconari name and organization.
I ignore him and get my limbs back online so I can eat up the distance between my hazardous spot in traffic and the place where Daisy stands just outside the doorway of Santino’s talking to the owner.
I approach her like she’s a figment of my imagination, like the two beers I had were something stronger, something that could give me hallucinations. Mrs. Santino straightens up from where she was leaning on her broom.
I don’t greet the woman or ask about her grown kids. I don’t compliment how the place hasn’t changed.
I just say, “Daisy?”
Up close, I know it’s her, but something feels off. Her hair is shorter, darker. The sexy cropped tank top and freckled shoulders are long gone, replaced by a white tee and cut offs. I remember those long, tanned thighs wrapped around me, and breathe in too sharply at the bone-deep memory.
Daisy turns to look at me, startled, her eyes locking on mine. She looks flustered.
She doesn’t answer me, doesn’t say my name. It hits me how much I want to hear her say my name again.
I haven’t been pining over her for half a decade or anything stupid. I just feel like one of those assholes on TV that talks about the first breath of free air after years in prison. It’s impossible that I haven’t gotten a deep breath since she ran off, but damned if I don’t feel that way. She’s playing with the straw of her half-empty frozen Coke.