Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“I know,” I huffed, shaking my head. “But the thought of the most forgiving person on the planet not forgiving you is a little scary.”
“You don’t have to tell my family what happened,” he said quietly, his eyes on mine. “You told me. That’s enough.”
“They deserve an explanation,” I argued with a shrug.
“If they want one, I’ll give them one.” He squeezed my arm gently before letting go. “You don’t have to lay your shit bare for everyone who asks.”
“It’s Callie,” I said defensively.
“And tomorrow, it will be one of my aunts, or an uncle, or a cousin. They’ll all want to know why you stayed away.”
“Fuck.”
“You’re not hearin’ me,” he said, leaning closer. “You’ve talked to my parents. You’ve talked to Grams. That’s it, okay?”
I nodded.
“Everyone else can get fucked. This is between you and me.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to shield me,” I reminded him.
“I said I wasn’t gonna reassure you,” he grumbled, striding toward the kitchen.
“Well, I’m feeling pretty reassured,” I joked lightly, following him. He ignored me.
Chapter 8
Michael
Dinner was easy. Calm. My grandparents were in love with Rhett and they peppered him with questions. He soaked it all up. Our son wasn’t saying full sentences quite yet, but he knew a hell of a lot of words. You could follow along pretty easily if you just paid attention to the inflection he put on them.
Gramps asked him about dinosaurs Rhett babbled for an entire minute. Grandma made a mention of her garden and Rhett told her about bees. They held an entire conversation back and forth with Rhett only adding in a word or two here and there and Gram filling in the rest.
He was such a trip. My grandparents were delighted with Rhett. I couldn’t think of any other word to describe it.
“You know,” Gramps said, pointing his fork at me. “Little Mick used to lay out all my tools in a row and tell me what each one was and how it was used. I bet he could do the same for you.”
“Daddy’s big,” Rhett pointed out, taking a bite of his hamburger.
Gramps chuckled.
“He wasn’t always big.”
“We call him Little Mick because he was named after his uncle,” Grams said gently, glancing at Gramps. “So when someone was talking about your dad, we’d know it was him and not his uncle.”
Rhett was quiet for a moment, processing. “Big Mick?” he asked finally.
Gramps cleared his throat. “He died, son.”
Rhett’s eyes widened as he looked at his mom.
“Yes,” Emilia replied. “You know that word, huh? Grandma and Grandpa died, too.”
“Died,” Rhett confirmed, going back to his food. He may have known the word, but it didn’t hold any meaning for him, not yet.
The table was quiet for a minute, everyone lost in their own thoughts. My uncle Mick, the original Mick, had died as a teenager, long before I was born. He’d been my mother’s best friend and my dad’s baby brother and I knew they felt that loss still, nearly thirty years later.
“Daddy Michael?” Rhett asked Emilia curiously, breaking the silence.
We all watched him in confusion, but Emilia seemed to know exactly what he was asking.
“When your dad and I were kids, he told me he didn’t like being called Mick,” she said.
My grandparents sat up straighter and glanced at me, then back at Emilia.
“He didn’t like being compared to his uncle. They were both big guys, and they were both smart, and both funny, and both kind.” Her eyes met mine again. “And he was feeling kind of bad about that, so from then on, I called him Michael.”
“Oh,” Rhett said easily. I wasn’t sure he’d followed what she said.
“I called him Mick when we were little, though,” Emilia said with a smile.
I appreciated the way she’d answered Rhett. She’s explained it all, even though he hadn’t fully grasped it. I had a feeling that was why he knew so many words—because she didn’t talk down to him.
I hadn’t just disliked being compared to my uncle, I’d hated being a reminder. My grandparents had never recovered from my uncle’s death, and I wasn’t sure my parents had either. I hadn’t known them before, so I couldn’t be sure, but I’d always been keenly aware of when I’d remind them of the kid they lost. My mom would send my dad a look, or my grandma would pull me to her for a kiss for no reason at all, and I’d feel it. The loss.
“We didn’t know you didn’t like it,” my gramps said gruffly, his eyes on me.
“I was a kid,” I replied easily, shooting him a smile. “I grew out of it.”
And I had. As I’d grown up and matured, I’d realized that while my similarities to my uncle had hurt in some ways, they’d also been a balm. I grew proud of carrying on the name of someone they’d loved so much. I’d never admit it, but as I’d grown older than my uncle Mick had ever been, I’d also realized that they didn’t have anyone to compare me to anymore. He’d never been an adult. I was no longer walking in his footsteps.