Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77016 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I erupt.
I love you. I fucking love you, Skye.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Since I came straight from New York, I have my luggage with me. I put a pair of lounge pants on while Skye covers herself in a satin robe. I hold her hand as we walk to the couch where we fucked only a little over an hour earlier.
To my surprise, she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t prod me. She made a promise that she wouldn’t push me, and she seems determined to live up to it.
I take her hand and rub circles in her palm with my thumb. “This isn’t easy for me.”
“I know. It’s okay. Take your time. Or don’t say anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“I loved my mother,” I say. “So did Ben.”
“I’m sure she loved both of you, too.”
“She did. We were all that kept her going sometimes. I’m not sure she’d have had the strength to go to the food pantry if she didn’t have our two mouths to feed.”
“It couldn’t have been easy for her.”
I pause. Inhale. For a moment, I consider clamming up. It would be much easier to keep it all inside. But Skye opened up to me, and I want to give her something in return.
“After the fire, she spent several weeks in the hospital. She was in constant pain. Ben and I weren’t allowed to see her because she had to be kept in a sterile environment until her skin grafts took.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not looking for sympathy, Skye. I never am.”
“I understand. Can’t I still be sorry that your poor mother had to go through all that?”
“I suppose.” I sigh. “Anyway, before the fire, we always had enough to eat. It wasn’t gourmet food, by any means, but we didn’t go to a food pantry, and we weren’t on government assistance.”
“Beef stew,” she says quietly.
“Beef stew?”
“That evening when you showed up here unannounced and I served you leftover beef stew. You said your mother used to make it.”
Memories collide into my mind. Of my mom’s stew—the savory aroma, the rich, hearty broth bubbling on the stove, the way it filled the house with warmth. I can still taste the tender chunks of meat and vegetables, perfectly seasoned, and the comforting sense of home that always came with each spoonful. “She did. Tough stew meat was a staple at our house. She’d cook it forever, and it was delicious. That was before the fire, though. After the fire, we couldn’t afford even the toughest beef.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Still not looking for sympathy. Anyway, like I told you before, insurance wouldn’t pay even though the fire was an accident. My mother eventually came home, and I think she would have been okay if…”
“If what?”
I bury my head in my hands. The memories torment me. They pull me back to a time when everything felt safe, before life became so complicated. I can almost hear the soft clink of the spoon in the bowl, the quiet hum of my mom moving around the kitchen. It’s the warmth I miss most, the simplicity of those moments, and now they’re just echoes, reminders of what I can’t get back. And of how, once she came home, I ruined everything.
Finally, I look up and meet her gaze. “Ben and I weren’t able to visit her at the hospital. So when she finally came home…”
I gulp. The image. My mother. The once smooth, pale skin now marred with raw, angry patches, scars that would never fully fade.
“I cried when I saw her. Screamed even. The scarring was so…so… The word that comes to my mind is ugly. Scary. I was seeing it through the eyes of a six-year-old. I expected to see my beautiful mother, but…”
“Didn’t your father prepare you?”
“He tried to. But have you ever seen a burn victim, Skye?”
She nods. “Yes. Not in person, but I once went to a photo exhibit where the artist’s subjects were all burn victims. It was beautiful work. Their humanity shone through.”
“You were an adult, then.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t know any of the victims personally.” I thread my fingers through my hair still wet from the shower. “You can’t prepare a young brain for that. This was my mother.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
For an instant, I’m a little boy again, tortured by the visual of my mother.
Skye is silent for a few minutes. Then, “How did Ben react?”
I open my eyes, calmer. “He didn’t scream. That’s all on me.”
“But he was younger.”
“Younger, yes. But he didn’t react the way I did. I can’t explain it.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t talk to anyone about it. Except my therapist on occasion. And now you.”
She puts her hand over mine. “Braden, you aren’t responsible for what your mother went through.”
“I know that.”
I repeat the words I’ve heard so often from my therapist. Still, I blame myself.