Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
I blinked against the bright sun that was blinding me, ripping me from that memory. I’d thought of that night over and over again. Because in hindsight, I had seen signs there was something wrong with Cill then too.
I exhaled a long breath—it was stuttered. I barely felt anger when I thought of Cillian anymore. Now, there was just a deep ache in my chest that never went away. I looked to Jacob, who was still nervously playing with his hands beside me. I couldn’t believe my own ears when I found myself saying, “I had an older brother too. Cillian.” My voice was rough and strained as I spoke his name aloud. But the words were coming, and that in itself was a goddamn miracle.
I caught Jacob’s hands still in my periphery. “He was my best friend,” I said and cast my gaze to Savannah, who was tying up a young girl’s hair back into a ponytail that must have fallen out. I smiled seeing her this way. She wanted to work with kids and was worried she wasn’t good enough. She was. She was perfect. Feeling my stare, she looked up. She blushed under my attention, then awarded me with a wide smile.
Some of the aching in my chest eased a little. I turned to Jacob, who met my stare. And this time he didn’t look away. I cleared my throat and said, “He …” I coughed again. “He died not too long ago.”
Jacob’s eyes softened a fraction. In that moment, I could tell he knew we were the same. Scarred by fraternal loss. Jacob shuffled in his seat and said, “Did your brother save you too?”
Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my jaw and blinked fast to keep them from falling. His question robbed me of breath. But when I thought back to Cillian, a movie reel of old memories cycled through my head. Showing all the laughter and fun we used to share—the hours and hours spent on the frozen pond, birthdays and holidays. Vacations in Mexico, just laughing. And all the times I’d had a bad game and he would crush me to his chest, kiss my head, and tell me it would all be okay. To shrug it off and refocus.
To move on …
“Yeah,” I said, barely audible. “He … he saved me too,” I said, because it was true. He’d saved me in all the ways that counted. Right up until the end, he was the best big brother anyone could wish for.
Jacob turned his head to the busy yard when someone shrieked in laughter. “Do you miss him too?” Jacob asked, then turned back to me. His brown eyes were wide and sorrowful as he waited for my answer.
“Every minute of every day,” I whispered.
“He was teaching me how to play football—soccer,” Jacob said. “Daniel, my brother. He had started teaching me, just before …”
I saw the sports shed off to the side of the yard. “You want to play now?”
Jacob followed my line of sight. “You play football?” he asked.
I smirked. “I’m okay at it,” I said. “Hockey is my sport.”
Jacob gave a tiny smile. “On ice?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“We don’t get much ice here,” he said. But then he got to his feet and beelined for the sports shed. I got up and followed him. When he opened the door, I froze. Because staring back at me were a stack of unbranded wooden hockey sticks and a bucket of practice balls.
“We had someone come here who was from Canada. He liked ice hockey too and made these from some spare wood that wasn’t being used on the houses,” Jacob said. He ducked his head. “He taught some people how to play a little on land. I wanted to join in, but I just …”
He couldn’t make himself join in. I understood that.
The sticks practically glowed as they sat against the wall of the shed gathering dust. My hands flexed with the need to hold one. Memory after memory barreled into my mind. Of Cillian teaching me to play. Teaching me how to hold a stick …
“One hand on the top,” he said. The stick felt huge in my hands, but Cill had recently started to play hockey and I wanted to play too. “Now put a hand down here,” he said, placing my other hand farther down the stick. “How does it feel?” he asked, coming to stand in front of me. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. He was proud.
“Good,” I said, smiling so wide my cheeks ached. “It feels wicked good.”
Reaching into the shed, I pulled out a stick and blew the cobwebs from the wood. I ran my hand down the smoothed surface and gripped it in my hands. The sense of rightness was immediate. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to catch a moment of peace. It had been too long since I’d held a stick and not thrown it away or smashed it to pieces. I stayed in the moment, breathing in the warm air, feeling relaxed. I thought of Cillian. For a moment, I almost believed I felt his hand squeeze my shoulder again. Proud of me once more.