Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“What time?”
“Whenever suits you.”
Dad thinks for a moment, then suggests, “How about four pm?”
“Works for me.”
When he leaves the kitchen, I check the dumplings before making the noodles, which don’t take long to cook.
When the food is ready, I prepare three plates. Placing two plates with chopsticks and soy sauce on a tray, I carry it to Dad’s office so I can eat with him.
Passing Louisa, where she’s wiping down the handrail by the stairs, I say, “Your food is in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
Walking into Dad’s office, I set the tray down on the coffee table, and take a seat on the couch.
“Come eat, Daddy.”
He gets up from behind his desk and sits down beside me. Picking up his chopsticks, he murmurs, “It looks delicious, sweetheart.”
I’ve put off discussing my plans with my father, and after swallowing a bite of a dumpling, I say, “I want to start looking at apartments.”
Dad’s eyes snap to my face. “So soon?”
“I’ll probably look around for a month or so before finding a place.”
“Which areas?”
“Manhattan. I want to be close to the restaurant where I hope to get a position.”
“Let’s see where you end up working, then I’ll help you buy an apartment.”
The corner of my mouth lifts into a smile. “You don’t have to do that. My savings account is pretty healthy.”
“I know, but let me do this for you. Consider it a gift for fighting so hard.”
I nudge my shoulder against Dad’s. “You spoil me rotten.”
“Of course. You’re my daughter.”
I feel a little emotional as we continue to eat, and only when we're done do I say, “I wouldn’t have survived without you, Daddy. Thank you for practically dragging me through the past three years.”
He pats my knee before getting up and walking to his desk. With his back to me, he clears his throat before murmuring, “There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.”
I know. I’m the luckiest person alive to have him as my father.
Climbing out of the Mercedes, my eyes touch on the bouquet of lilies before I glance over the cemetery.
While I wait for Dad to walk around the car, a Bentley with blacked-out windows drives slowly past us.
Smiling at Dad, I hook my arm through his, and as we walk toward Mom’s grave, I look at the neatly trimmed grass and well-maintained graves. There are flower beds and old trees, the nature blending with the headstones.
“It’s actually pretty and peaceful here.”
“I wouldn’t associate the word pretty with a cemetery,” Dad replies.
I glance to my right and see a man crouching in front of a headstone, his head slightly bowed. Before I can look away, he glances in my direction.
With the distance between us, I can’t get a good look at his face, and quickly look away so he doesn’t think I’m staring at him.
When we reach Mom’s grave, I take the dead flowers from the holder attached to the headstone and put the fresh bouquet in it.
“We brought you lilies, Mom,” I say as I read the words engraved on the granite.
“Hi, Sadie,” Dad whispers while he wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I brought Skylar so you could see how good she’s doing.” His voice tenses with sorrow as he adds, “But she’s just as stubborn as you and wants to do too much too soon.”
I let out a chuckle. “No, Dad’s being overprotective like always.”
Silence falls around us as we stand by Mom’s grave, and a moment later, I feel the eerie prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
Glancing to my right, I see the man still standing by the grave he came to visit, but his head’s turned toward us.
He’s just looking in our direction, but still, my body tenses and I feel a sense of danger.
“Let’s go home, Daddy,” I say, already turning away from Mom’s grave.
As we walk back to the car, Dad asks, “Is there anywhere else you want to stop, or are we heading home?”
“Home. I want to get started with dinner.”
We climb into the Mercedes, and I pull on the safety belt. When Dad steers us toward the gates of the cemetery, I say, “Since the transplant, I keep getting this weird sensation that I’m being watched.”
Dad’s eyes flick to my face. “But you’ve hardly left the house.”
“I know. It’s weird. Whether I’m cooking or watching TV, the feeling just pops up at the most random times.”
“You’re not one to be paranoid, sweetheart. Maybe we should make an appointment with a therapist. You’ve been through a lot the past three years, and talking about it could be good for you.”
I let out a chuckle. “No, thanks. I’m not spilling my guts to some stranger. Talking to you is all the therapy I need.”
“Maybe you should invite Oakley and Hallie over. You haven’t seen them in a while,” Dad mentions.