Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
O. E. G.
Each letter written in a different hand. The first is so messy it had to be traced a couple times until it actually made a proper O.
O. E. G.
Ophelia. Ethan. Grant.
My lips tremble, but I smile, tracing the letters with my fingertips.
“I remember this book,” I whisper. “Did you know I knew your Uncle Grant when he was just a boy, Nell?”
“You did?” She watched me with rapt attention.
“He was my brother’s best friend. We were always together, all three of us. The Three Musketeers.” It hurts to breathe, but the pain isn’t all bitter. “When he’d sleep over with my brother at my mom’s house, your uncle would bring this book quite a lot. Sometimes he’d read to us until we fell asleep... and if we didn’t fall asleep the first time, he’d read it again.”
Nell looks at me with something like awe.
“Dang. You really are the lady,” she whispers. I blush hotly until she asks, “Where’s your brother now? How come Uncle Grant doesn’t hang out with him anymore?”
Holy shit, the mouth of babes.
My throat closes up.
“Ethan, he had to go away,” I manage slowly. “Kind of like the way your parents had to leave, too.”
Nell’s eyes glisten, but she beams me the sweetest, bravest smile and then scoots across the bed until she can steal my arm to hug it, leaning herself against my shoulder.
“It’s okay if he’s gone,” she says. “I get it. Uncle Grant tells me all the time it’s cool to be sad. I’m only sad because I still love them, and that’s not a bad thing.”
She’s. Killing. Me.
“Your Uncle Grant is very wise—just don’t tell him I said that,” I joke, kissing the top of her head. “Also, you’re very right. It’s not bad to be sad. I still love my brother a lot.”
“Do you still love Uncle Grant, too?”
I stiffen. My next breath goes down wrong until I have to clear my throat to talk.
“I. Um. Let’s start the story so you’re not up past your bedtime.”
“...if I don’t fall asleep, will you read it to me again?” she asks hopefully.
I smile.
“Yeah, sweetie,” I say. “I absolutely will.”
I end up reading the book almost three times before Nell finally dozes off.
I have to pry her off my arm and it takes a little work to do it without waking her, but eventually she sinks down with a sleepy sigh that tugs at my heartstrings.
Sweet girl.
Even if she can be a little hellraiser.
Soon, I turn off the lights, check her night-light, and leave her there cuddled up with Mr. Pickle. I almost want to bring the book with me now and ask Grant if he remembers writing our initials.
Instead, I leave it on the nightstand and tiptoe downstairs, my heart fast and my blood thick and my thoughts whirling.
I’m hoping I can talk to Grant.
Ask him to explain, to sort everything out, because once again his gentle actions don’t match the cruel words that exiled me from Redhaven.
When I step down into the living room, he’s unconscious.
Sprawled out on the sofa with his legs stretched out in front of him, his body slouched to one side and his head pillowed on the overstuffed arm.
Sound asleep, and yeah, he still does it.
He scowls in his sleep like he’s annoyed with his dreams, grouching at them the entire time they play in his head.
The more things change, they really do stay the same.
Including what I do now.
When we were kids and he’d spread out with his arms and legs all akimbo, I’d creep off the stairs and rearrange his covers so he was tucked in warmly.
He never knew.
Now, I move through the living room and pull the knit throw off the back of the sofa to drape over him. It barely covers his enormous bulk from ribs to thigh.
With a soft laugh, I slip upstairs, rummage around in the trunk at the foot of the bed, and find a couple nice big fleece blankets.
Back downstairs, I arrange the fleeces over Grant quietly, practically making a nest around him.
He doesn’t even bat an eyelash, sleeping deep and hard.
He looks so cozy and warm. So peaceful.
And I get cold so easily.
Oh, you know I shouldn’t.
But I want to.
And maybe tonight giving in to this fierce, beating wanting won’t make things worse than they already are.
Biting my lip, chest aching, I settle into the blankets with him, pulling myself against his side.
Against his heat.
Against his silent strength that was always an unbreakable rock when I was growing up, never mind the sharp words that became too much to bear.
There are no angry words now.
Only a warm, firm body enfolding me like a shield.
And him.
Us.
I settle my head against his shoulder, draw the blankets around us, and slide into the most restful sleep I’ve had in years.
Easy when I finally feel safe.