Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Our pain was different from one another. He lost a wife; I lost a mother.
Still, we both shattered into a million pieces.
That was the thing about grief—it didn’t discriminate. It simply made everyone drown.
CHAPTER 12
Milo
I spent most of the weekend trying to pull myself together.
I didn’t often feel ashamed, but I sure did when Monday came around and it was time for my study session with Starlet after she’d witnessed my full-blown meltdown.
“I’m sorry about Friday. I wasn’t myself,” I muttered to Starlet as I sat down in the library study room. I tossed my backpack onto the table and grumbled from my aching headache. No amount of ibuprofen was easing up the discomfort. I probably should’ve drunk more water throughout the weekend, but I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to take on those actions.
Starlet smiled at me. Her look held no annoyance, judgment, or blame.
“You’re not pissed,” I commented.
“No, I’m not.”
“Why aren’t you pissed? I could’ve gotten you in a shit ton of trouble.”
“It’s fine.” She shifted around in her chair and then reached out and placed a hand against my forearm. My eyes moved down to her touch. I should’ve pulled my arm away from her, but the warmth was too addicting.
“Why are you touching me?” I asked.
“I spoke with Principal Gallo. He mentioned what Friday was.”
Oh.
That explained it.
She was pitying me.
I pulled my arm back and placed it in my lap. “It was just a day.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t.”
No, I silently agreed. It wasn’t.
I shuffled in my backpack to pull out my math book and said, “I figured we should start with the math assignments and—”
“What’s her name?” Starlet cut in.
I arched my eyebrow. “What?”
“Your mother. What’s her name?”
My throat tightened as I froze in place. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I can tell she’s important to you. I want to know about the things important to you.”
She is important to you.
As if my mother were still around.
I hated how she said that.
I loved how she said that, too.
I grimaced. “No, you don’t. You feel bad for me.”
“I do feel bad for you,” she confessed. “But I also do want to know the important things. Two things can be true at the same time.”
“You’re supposed to tutor me. Not ask about my personal life. So how about you do your job,” I huffed.
Her eyes locked with mine, and she smiled, completely unmoved by my bad attitude. She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, not taking her stare away from mine. “My mother’s name is Rosa. She’s my best friend. Her favorite thing in the world was making homemade items. Soaps, lotions, and fresh homemade applesauce from the apple tree in our backyard. She was allergic to dogs but still always snuggled them whenever one approached her. She hated vegetables but pretended not to in order to get me to eat them. And she loved my father and me to her core. We loved her, too. Losing her felt like losing ourselves for a very long time. It took years for me not to cry when I saw a photograph of her. I still cry sometimes, but it’s less. She once built me a bike, too. She built one for me, one for her, and we’d ride said bikes together down the steepest hills. I’d stretch my arms out wide, and she’d hold my hands in hers as she did the same thing, and we’d ride down the hill together.”
“What are you doing, Star?” I whispered.
“Sharing a few of my scars to make you feel safe enough to share your own. If you don’t want to share, that’s fine. I won’t push anymore, but I feel happy when people ask me about my mother. I love talking about her because it’s like she’s still here when I get to share. Most people say they’re sorry and carry on with their lives. I don’t want to do that with you, Milo. I want to know more.”
I sat back in my seat, debating how to move forward. A big part of me wanted to get up and leave, never returning to school again. Yet another part of me knew Starlet was right. Most people offered their condolences and left it at that.
What’s her name?
How did those words from Starlet rock me sideways?
“Ana,” I confessed. “Her name was Ana.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“Yeah. It was.”
“What’s her passion?”
“Cooking. She was a chef. She was Italian and lived in Italy until she was thirteen. She studied cooking her whole life and had a restaurant here called Con Amore.”
“With love,” she breathed out, translating the name. Her hand flew to her chest. “That was my mom’s favorite restaurant. She was Italian, too. She said it was the most authentic Italian food you could find around our parts. We used to go there every Sunday for freshly baked rolls and ham. Your mother was very gifted at her craft, Milo. I’m glad I was able to experience a piece of her.”