Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
He nodded. Turned another page.
“I was mad at my dad and at the situation, and maybe even at my sister for being so trusting, and I took it out on her.” I cringed. “I said something real fucking shitty to her, and I’m sorry about it.”
Justin finally looked up. “Maybe you should be saying this to her, man.”
I exhaled. “Yeah, I know.”
After leaving the station Wednesday morning, I ran some errands and spent the afternoon painting the girls’ bedroom as a surprise for them—the wall behind Luna’s bed pink, the one behind Hallie’s bed lavender.
Dad guilt in all its pastel glory.
I looked at my phone a hundred times, but with every hour that went by, it just got harder to reach out.
Around seven, I called the girls, who told me all about their first couple days at school. Hallie was excited about a new friend she’d made, Luna adored kindergarten so far, and neither of them said a word about Winnie or my grumpy mood the other day—it was like they didn’t even remember it.
But I was sure Winnie hadn’t forgotten a thing.
Finally, just after eight o’clock, I sat down at the foot of my bed and sent her a text.
Sorry about Monday. I was a jerk.
I sent that, and while I was wondering if I should offer an excuse, she replied.
You were.
Exhaling, I texted her again. Can I explain?
You can try.
I don’t want to do it over text. Can I come over?
She didn’t respond right away.
I just got out of the shower.
Give me five minutes.
But I was so anxious to get the apology off my chest, I only gave her three—I didn’t even put shoes on, I just ran over there in bare feet, gray sweatpants, and a white T-shirt.
She answered the door in a short robe that tied at the front, her hair wet and uncombed, and a brush in her hand. She looked so young and pretty without makeup, my breath hitched. But her expression was anything but friendly.
“Come in,” she said tonelessly.
I followed her into her living room. When she sat on one end of the couch, I sat on the other. Rubbed my hands over my knees. Took a breath. “I owe you an apology.”
She began brushing her hair. Pinned me with cool, detached eyes. “Yes. You do.”
“I’m sorry for the way I treated you. You didn’t deserve it.”
“You really hurt my feelings.”
“I know.” I swallowed hard. “I could tell.”
“I was just trying to make sure you were okay. As a friend.”
“I wasn’t okay. But that’s no excuse for the things I said.” I took another deep breath. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Winnie. I was angry about something else and lashed out at you. I sincerely apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” she said, tugging at tangles at the back of her head.
Relieved—and grateful she was so understanding and sweet—I leaned over and reached for the brush. “Let me.”
“Huh?”
“Come sit here.” I moved toward the middle of the couch and widened my knees, patting the cushion between them.
She looked a little dubious, but she did as I asked. “You’re going to brush my hair?”
“Yes,” I said, starting at the bottom. “I have to make up for being a jerk to you. And besides, I’m good at this.”
She was silent as I combed through her hair with slow, smooth strokes. It smelled delicious—like coconut.
“How was your interview?” I asked.
“Good.”
“Did she offer you the job?”
“Yes.”
“Did you accept?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I did. But I haven’t even told anyone yet. You’re the first.”
“Congratulations,” I said, even though my heart sank at the thought of her leaving. “You must be really excited.”
“The hotel is undergoing some renovations, so I won’t go until early October, but yes—I’m excited. I think it will be good for me.” She paused. “I think maybe I need a change.”
“Change can be good.” Her hair was all combed out, but I kept brushing it. “Bree said my father wants to see us. He’s got terminal lung cancer. That’s what upset me on Monday.”
“Oh.” She put a hand on my leg. “I’m really sorry, Dex.”
“The last time I saw him was at my mother’s funeral. That was seven years ago. He hadn’t been around before that in years—she had breast cancer and went through treatment alone. Then he showed up all sad and somber, like he gave a fuck.”
She didn’t say anything. Her silence was inviting, and the fact that I could talk without eye contact helped too.
“I guess he’s sober and remarried now. Bree is in touch with his new wife. She asked if we’d consider reconciling with him.”
“That’s got to be a tough decision.”
I exhaled. “Bree feels bad for him. I don’t know if I do or not. What does that say about me?”
“It says you were very hurt by him as a child. And that your feelings are complicated.”