Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
I can't do that to myself, but I can't help it, either.
“I'll go in and say goodnight,” I offer. “Get a feel for how she's doing.” Relief flashes in his eyes, and he nods, like he wanted to do that but knew better. While things have eased up between them—she's not ripping his head off the way she used to—there's never any telling with her. I've never seen anybody's mood change as quickly as hers does.
She's watching something on her laptop when I ease the door open, sitting with her back to the headboard. “Hey. Sorry if I'm interrupting.”
She rolls her eyes and waves me in. “Another true crime documentary. I'm, like, addicted to them now. Women getting revenge.”
“We should watch something together, in the living room. I'm not doing anything tomorrow.”
Lifting a shoulder, she turns her attention back to the screen. “I feel more comfortable here.”
The impulse to argue with her leaves me biting my tongue. I don't want to fight, and that's exactly what we'll end up doing if I push any harder. This room is becoming her tomb, full of used dishes. At least her hair looks like it's been washed recently, which is a step up, and she's wearing clean pajamas. Small miracles.
I wish I knew why she's so against talking to a doctor.
I also wish I knew why she insists on having the sapphire blue urn on her nightstand. She catches me looking at it. “It's pretty,” she murmurs. “And her ashes make me feel… safer, somehow.”
Her mother's ashes make her feel safer? If only I could understand where her head is right now.
“I'm glad you have them,” I venture, crossing the room so I can sit on the edge of the bed. It occurs to me that maybe I should've changed before I came in here rather than walking around in a dress that cost more than I used to pay in a month's rent when I was living with Lucas.
“It's sad. She didn't even get a funeral or a service or anything. They just took her body to the funeral home, and she was cremated by some shady guy who was paid under the table.”
I doubt she had anybody in her life willing to attend a service. Tatum, maybe. I would've gone with her for support. Otherwise?
Still, memorials, funerals, celebrations of life, they're a sense of closure for the living and that's something she'll never get. “I could always put something together for her. Maybe scatter a handful of her ashes somewhere she loved to go.”
Tatum snorts, “Like I would know where that is. She never told me anything about herself. I don't even know why I care so much. It's not like she cared about me.”
“She was your mom, babe. I'd be worried if you didn't care.” I place a hand on her shoulder.
“I know she got what she deserved.” She wraps her arms around herself—jeez, she's so thin, she needs to eat more—before hitting me with a knowing, almost angry look. “And before you tell me one more time to talk to a professional, how am I supposed to talk about any of this? Gee, doc, my mom set it up so my best friend would get kidnapped. She wanted to ruin my father's life and help his enemy take control of his illegal businesses. Only she had her brains blown out, instead. Oh, and surprise, she couldn't even have a funeral because the whole damn thing needs to be kept a secret.”
Okay, when she puts it that way, I can see why she's hesitant to talk with a doctor. “Okay, so you don't have to talk specifically about that,” I murmur while a narrator drones on about the details of a grisly murder. “But you should at least talk about Kristoff and what happened in Europe. I'm not saying to go into specifics about how your mom died, either. You can talk about, you know, how strained your relationship was and—”
“Look, I get it. Okay? You don't have to beat a dead horse.”
“I wasn't trying to.” I've already pushed too hard. Damn it. There is no winning with her.
Her gaze flicks over my dress. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Yes, we went to dinner.” I smile, though it feels strangely awkward to be doing so.
“That's good. It must have been a nice place if you're so dressed up.”
“Your dad bought the place out for the night to ensure nobody else was there. Can't take any chances.”
“No, you wouldn't want to do that. Not with the baby and everything.”
I want to crawl out of my skin, I'm so uncomfortable. On the surface, there's nothing wrong with what she's saying, but I know her too well to be fooled. There's resentment dripping from every word; all I want to do is tell her I'm sorry. I'm not even sure what I'm sorry for or what it is that's really bothering her. Is it the baby on the way, the fact that I happen to be the baby's mother? The fact that I'm happy while she's sinking lower and lower? Maybe all of it combined.