Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I settled into bed again, sniffling as I swallowed my emotions.
There are no words to truly define grief, but if I had to imagine them, I’d say grief is a beast who likes to stomp, claw, and bite until you’re stripped of everything. Then, when you finally gain some balance, it returns for another round, and the cycle continues, until you’re nothing but a hollow shell waving a white flag.
That’s grief, I’m afraid. And it’s so damn cruel.
I woke up groggy when my alarm went off.
It was a Saturday, and I didn’t have to work, so it was completely unnecessary for me to be awake at seven in the morning. I’d found that if I stayed in bed too long, though, I’d never leave.
Perched on an elbow, I peered around my room as strips of sunlight lingered on the walls and highlighted my wedding photos as well as the old hoodies and baseball caps hanging on the wall rack. It was better to get up and keep the routine.
I got ready for the day and made a list in the kitchen of groceries I would need. Later, as I shopped, my phone rang in my purse, and I dug it out. When I saw who was calling, I beamed.
“Octavia!” I answered with a squeal.
“Vina!” she sang.
“You finally had time to call me back, huh?”
“Nah-uh. Don’t be like that, okay?” my sister said, laughing. “I’m a busy woman. And besides, not everyone has their life together like you do.”
“Girl, bye. I wish I had my life together.” I pushed the shopping cart forward.
“I was thinking about heading to Charlotte to see you next weekend. Roger’s parents are going out of town, and they’re taking him with them, so I’ll be free.”
“Who is Roger, again?”
She sucked her teeth. “The kid I nanny now. He’s such a spoiled fucking brat, Vina. You know he got gum stuck in one of my locs.”
I gasped as I grabbed a tub of vanilla ice cream from one of the freezers. “No, he did not!”
“Yes! I went to my loctician, and she had to cut the loc off. I wanted to cry. He’s lucky it was on the back of my head. Can’t really see where it was cut. But still. My hair is my joy, and he tried to rob me of it. Little asshole.”
I huffed a laugh. “Isn’t he, like, three?”
“Yeah, but I’m telling you, Vina. Three-year-olds are emotional terrorists.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. I didn’t have any kids, but I knew many people who did, and all of them had shared a gripe or two about toddlerhood.
“Well, if you come next weekend, I’ll have the guest room ready.” I paused as I scanned the shelf for cinnamon.
“Have you talked to Mama?” Octavia asked, and I stopped my eyes from shooting to the ceiling.
“Not much lately,” I answered dryly.
Octavia sighed so hard I may as well have felt her breath in my ear. “You need to stop remembering the old version of her. She’s trying, Vina.”
“Yeah, and it only took her sixteen years to do so.” I tossed the cinnamon into the cart with more force than intended.
“If I can forgive her, you can too. You know I couldn’t stand how she used to be—and look at Abe. He’s doing good. Going to school. Going to his cute little spectrum basketball camps. Getting fed hella grilled cheese sandwiches ’cause that’s all he’ll eat. Plus, she was there for you when Lew died. She dropped everything and came running, so that proves she cares and that she’s changed.”
My chest tightened as I headed to the checkout, remembering how Mama cooked every morning and night, left little DOVE chocolates on my pillows after my showers in the morning. She was there for a whole week.
I was so consumed by grief that I hardly acknowledged it, but now that I remembered, I felt guilty.
“Just call her, all right? She said she’s been trying to reach you. She misses you, Vina.”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, well, just like you, I’ve been busy, sis.”
“Sure. Whatever. Where are you anyway? What’s all the beeping?”
“I’m at the store. I’m making an apple-crumble cake later.”
“Oh, Lord. Please don’t burn your house down.”
“Bite me, bitch. I can bake too.” Not as well as my sister could, though.
“I’ll call you when I’m on the way to your house.”
“Okay.” I dug into my purse for my wallet. “Love you, Poop-Butt.”
“Love you, too, Stinky V!”
I chuckled, slipping the phone back into my purse. After collecting my bag of groceries, I walked past a magazine stand to get to the exit but ended up doing a quick double take when I spotted Deke Bishop on the cover of a sports magazine.
His hands were pressed on top of a basketball, and he wore a black T-shirt with the number seventeen on it. As usual, gold chains hung from his neck. The thick veins in his hands ran all the way up to his inked forearms, and his lips were quirked up on one side just enough to reveal his amusement.