Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Three pretty pictures, mixed in with the others. All hues of indigo, my favorite color, and all seemingly serene and beautiful. But each a memory of something that’s made me the person I am.
My phone vibrates with the reminder of the most recent message. It’s Daniel, of course. Come over.
I need to work, I text him and snort at his immediate response. No you don’t.
I do, in fact, need to work. I could easily work at his place. That’s what I’ve been doing and I actually enjoy it. I love it when he kisses my shoulder and tells me what he thinks of the photo I’m working on. He makes me feel less alone and he understands how I see the pictures and why they mean so much to me.
I want to apologize.
You did and I get it, I tell him even though it makes the ache in my chest that much deeper.
Please, just give me another chance.
Please is another word I’m not used to hearing from Daniel and as much as I want to give in, I need a little time.
I really do have to work. We can meet up next week. As I press send, I realize I’m caving in. Simply prolonging what is sure to end. But then I remember the men by the church. If I could go back in time and make them stand there forever so I’d never have to face the fact that they weren’t the Crosses, I would.
It hurts deep in my chest. Denial is a damning thing.
And that’s what this is, isn’t it? Just a futile attempt to deny that we could ever exist without our past tearing us apart.
The phone sits there silent, indicating no new message from him although I know he sees my response. Picking up a tissue from the coffee table, I dry my nose and pick myself up off the sofa.
Life doesn’t wait for you. That’s something I’ve learned well.
Before I can take a step toward the kitchen to toss the tissue, a message from Daniel comes in. I promise I will make it up to you.
I don’t know what to write back. There’s no way to make this right.
So instead I focus on the work that’s waiting for me and choose not to respond.
I’ve barely been active online for a week now. Instead I’ve been taking pictures. Lots of them. Some of Daniel in abstract ways. Others of little things that remind me of him from when we were younger. I haven’t posted those yet though. I’m not sure I will either. No matter how beautiful I think they are.
I haven’t answered messages or sent out any packages. I don’t even know how my sales are going. When you run a business all by yourself, you can’t afford to take time off. For years I’ve buried myself in my passion and work, although really I’d just been running from reality. From my past.
Staring at the message from Daniel, the black and white text that’s so easy to read, I can’t answer the one question that matters.
What am I doing?
Six years ago
“Hey … hey …”
I hear a persistent voice but I ignore it. No one in this school has said a word to me. At least not to my face.
With a tug on my shirt, I’m forced to turn around and face a boy. A boy who’s nearly a man. He doesn’t have a baby face, and I can tell he shaves, but there’s a kindness about him that makes him appear young. And likable. Which is something I haven’t felt in the last two years.
“What are you doing?” he asks me and my forehead pinches.
I lift the pencil in the air and point to the chalkboard in science class as I say, “It’s called taking notes.”
The handsome guy laughs, a rough chuckle that forces me to smile. Some people’s happiness is simply contagious.
“No, I mean tonight.”
I don’t bother to respond other than to shrug. I do the same thing every night. Nothing. My life is nothing.
“My brothers and I are having a little party.”
“I don’t really do parties,” I answer him and nearly turn back around in my seat, but his smile doesn’t falter and that in itself keeps my attention.
Shrugging, he says, “We can do something else.”
“I don’t really do much,” I tell him honestly. I don’t really feel like doing anything. Each day is only a date on a calendar. That’s all they’ve been for a long time now.
“What about the assignment for art class? We could take some pictures for the photography project?” It takes me a moment to place him, but now that he’s mentioned it, I think I did see him in the back row yesterday in art class.
“It’s not my day for the camera.” The budget for the art department is small, so we have to take turns checking out the equipment.