Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Once he’s out of sight, I head for the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine then carry that with me into the garage. Opening up one box after another, I sort things into a pile I started for donations, and another pile I have to keep. As I reach the last box from Grandma’s room, I open it up and find a beautiful wooden box with butterflies carved into the surface. Taking the box out, I flip the brass latch and open the lid. I find dozens of letters in sealed envelopes all addressed to me, with ‘Return To Sender’ written on them in Colleen’s handwriting. I take a seat on the floor, and Loki comes and lies down next to me.
I open one after another. They’re all from my grandmother, one for every birthday, every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and holidays in between, all handwritten in swirly script that is unusual and beautiful. And all of them tell me a story, a sad story of a woman who lost her only daughter, only to lose her only granddaughter years later when her father died and his wife told her a lie that changed everything. Reading the last letter in the box, my lungs burn with anger and my heart fills with pain.
Dearest butterfly,
I’ve just gotten home from the doctors. They told me that I have dementia. I don’t think they know what they are talking about. I haven’t lost my mind. At least, I don’t think I have. Then again, if I did, I’m not sure I’d know.
(I laugh at that then pull in a shaky breath.)
I do know I haven’t forgotten about you. I think about you often and wish you would answer my letters, even just to tell me that you’re okay and you’re happy.
I love you, my butterfly.
Grandma
Butterfly. I forgot she used to call me that. I don’t know how I had forgotten, but I did. Holding that letter to my chest, my vision blurs. Putting the letters back in the box, I close the lid on it then get up and carry it inside with me. Setting it on the counter in the kitchen, I pour more wine into my empty glass then take a deep drink, hoping it will wash away the acid burning the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe.
It doesn’t help. Holding the glass tighter, I fight myself from throwing it against the wall and screaming about how unfair life is. I fight myself from calling my stepmom and yelling at her for what she did. Closing my eyes, tears stream down my cheeks. It won’t make a difference what I do now. Nothing will change. I won’t get back the time I’ve missed out on with a woman who meant the world to me. A woman who needed me and thought I abandoned her when she had already lost her husband and her daughter. Nothing will get back that time; no amount of tears or screaming will be able to fix this. It’s too late for my grandma and me to rebuild what was stolen from us.
Taking the box with me upstairs, I get into bed and hold it in my lap, running my fingers across one of the engraved butterfly wings, before opening the lid. Reading the letters once more, I soak in every single word before curling up in a ball and crying myself to sleep.
CHAPTER 11
Barely Holding On
Gia
“GIA?” COLTON SHOUTS AT me from downstairs, and I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.
“Yeah?” I call around the toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.
“Come here a sec,” he yells back, so I spit and rinse my mouth out, then drop my toothbrush into the cup with his.
Going across the bedroom to the railing of the loft, I look down at where he’s standing in the kitchen with the phone to his ear, and his eyes point up at me. “You rang?”
“Did you go to the storage locker Friday?” he asks, and I study the expression on his face, trying to read it but not getting it.
“I go every Friday to stock up for the weekend,” I remind him of something he should know. Because since I started working at the bar, I’ve been doing a pick-up every Friday to stock up for the weekend, and again on Mondays to replenish whatever needs to be replenished.
“Did you lock up before you left?”
“I always lock up,” I say, leaving the railing so I can head down the stairs. Going to the kitchen, I stop a few feet away from him and watch as he wraps his hand around the back of his neck and drops his eyes to his boots.
“She said she locked up, so she locked up. I don’t know how someone got in.” At his words, my stomach drops. “Yeah. Right. I’ll meet you there. Give me thirty.” He pulls the phone from his ear then looks at me. “Someone got into the storage unit between Friday and today. Lock was hanging open, not busted. What wasn’t taken, was completely destroyed.”