21
" How long are you going to wait for this guy?”
I’m thrown by his sudden shift. “Ah . . . I don’t know.”
“Give me your keys.”
“What?”
“Give me your keys. I’m going to change your tire while we’re waiting.”
I fish in my purse and come up with a handful of keys. “You’re going to—”
“Stay in the car.” He grabs the keys and practically yanks them out of my fingers. Then he slams the door in my face.
I watch him in the path of his headlights, mystified. He opens my trunk, and, moments later, emerges with the spare tire. He lays it beside the car, then pulls something else from the darkened space. I’ve never changed a tire, so I have no idea what he’s doing. His movements are quick and efficient, though.
I shouldn’t be sitting here, just watching, but I can’t help myself. There’s something compelling about him. Dozens of cars have passed, but he was the only one to stop—and he’s helping me despite the fact that I’ve been less than kind to him all night.
He gets down on the pavement—on the wet pavement, in the rain—and slides something under the car. A hand brushes wet hair off his face.
I can’t sit here and watch him do this.
He doesn’t look at me when I approach. “I told you to wait in the car.”
“So you’re one of those guys? Thinks the ‘little woman’ should wait in the car?”
“When the little woman doesn’t know her tires are bald and her battery could barely power a stopwatch?” He attaches a steel bar to . . . something . . . and starts twisting it. “Yeah. I am.”
My pride flinches. “So what are you saying?” I ask, deadpan. “You don’t want my help?”
His smile is rueful. “You’re kind of funny when you’re not so busy being judgmental.”
“You’re lucky I’m not kicking you while you’re down there.”
He loses the smile but keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing. “Try it, sister. "
― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)
27
" Kristin comes down the stairs, and the pressure on my chest snaps. I take a moment to turn away, inhaling deeply, blinking away tears. She sets the plate on a table behind the couch, and half tiptoes back up the stairs.
Thank god. I don’t think I could have handled maternal attention right this second. My body feels like it’s on a hair trigger.
I need to get it together. This is why people avoid me. Someone asks if I want a drink and I have a panic attack.
“You’re okay.” Declan is beside me, and his voice is low and soft, the way it was in the foyer. He’s so hard all the time, and that softness takes me by surprise. I blink up at him.
“You’re okay,” he says again.
I like that, how he’s so sure. Not Are you okay? No question about it.
You’re okay.
He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “But if you’re going to lose it, this is a pretty safe place to fall apart.” He takes two cookies from the plate, then holds one out to me. “Here. Eat your feelings.”
I’m about to turn him down, but then I look at the cookie. I was expecting something basic, like sugar or chocolate chip. This looks like a miniature pie, and sugar glistens across the top. “What . . . is that?”
“Pecan pie cookies,” says Rev. He’s taken about five of them, and I think he might have shoved two in his mouth at once. “I could live on them for days.”
I take the one Declan offered and nibble a bit from the side. It is awesome.
I peer up at him sideways. “How did you know?”
He hesitates, but he doesn’t ask me what I mean. “I know the signs.”
“I’m going to get some sodas,” Rev says slowly, deliberately. “I’m going to bring you one. Blink once if that’s okay.”
I smile, but it feels watery around the edges. He’s teasing me, but it’s gentle teasing. Friendly. I blink once.
This is okay. I’m okay. Declan was right.
“Take it out on the punching bag,” calls Rev. “That’s what I do.”
My eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Do whatever you want,” says Declan. “As soon as we do anything meaningful, the baby will wake up.”
Rev returns with three sodas. “We’re doing something meaningful right now.”
“We are?” I say.
He meets my eyes. “Every moment is meaningful.”
The words could be cheesy—should be cheesy, in fact—but he says them with enough weight that I know he means them. I think of The Dark and all our talk of paths and loss and guilt.
Declan sighs and pops the cap on his soda. “This is where Rev starts to freak people out.”
“No,” I say, feeling like this afternoon could not be more surreal. Something about Rev’s statement steals some of my earlier guilt, to think that being here could carry as much weight as paying respects to my mother. I wish I knew how to tell whether this is a path I’m supposed to be on. “No, I like it. Can I really punch the bag?”
Rev shrugs and takes a sip of his soda. “It’s either that or we can break out the Play-Doh "
― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)
28
" Zoe is survived by her husband, Charles, and her daughter, Juliet.
Survived. This guy is right. The words we use to surround death are bizarre. Like we’re hiding something.
I guess the obituary wouldn’t read right if it said something like, Zoe died on the way home from the airport, after nine months on assignment in a war zone, leaving her husband, Charles, and her daughter, Juliet, with a Welcome Home cake that would sit in the refrigerator for a month before either of them could bear to throw it away.
So maybe we are hiding something. "
― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)
31
" The hospital is as busy as it was yesterday. We go in through the main entrance, and people walk in every direction. The people in scrubs and white coats all walk a little bit faster. There’s a guy sleeping on one of the waiting room sofas, and a hugely pregnant woman leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s swirling a drink in a plastic cup. That baby is giving her T-shirt a run for its money. A toddler is throwing a tantrum somewhere down the hallway. The shrieking echoes.
We move to the bank of elevators, too, and Melonhead isn’t one of those guys who insists on pressing a button that’s already lit. He smiles and says “Good afternoon” to the pregnant woman, but I can’t look away from her swollen belly.
My mother is going to look like that.
My mother is going to have a baby.
My brain still can’t process this.
Suddenly, the woman’s abdomen twitches and shifts. It’s startling, and my eyes flick up to find her face.
She laughs at my expression. “He’s trying to get comfortable.”
The elevator dings, and we all get on. Her stomach keeps moving.
I realize I’m being a freak, but it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring.
She laughs again, softly, then comes closer. “Here. You can feel it.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly.
Melonhead chuckles, and I scowl.
“Not too many people get to touch a baby before it’s born,” she says, her voice still teasing. “You don’t want to be one of the chosen few?”
“I’m not used to random women asking me to touch them,” I say.
“This is number five,” she says. “I’m completely over random people touching me. Here.” She takes my wrist and puts my hand right over the twitching.
Her belly is firmer than I expect, and we’re close enough that I can look right down her shirt. I’m torn between wanting to pull my hand back and not wanting to be rude.
Then the baby moves under my hand, something firm pushing right against my fingers. I gasp without meaning to.
“He says hi,” the woman says.
I can’t stop thinking of my mother. I try to imagine her looking like this, and I fail.
I try to imagine her encouraging me to touch the baby, and I fail.
Four months.
The elevator dings.
“Come on, Murph,” says Melonhead.
I look at the pregnant lady. I have no idea what to say. Thanks?
“Be good,” she says, and takes a sip of her drink.
The elevator closes and she’s gone "
― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)
33
" We head to that corner of the basement. Rev straddles the weight bench and sits down while Declan sits on a yoga ball and leans against the corner. They fall into these positions so easily that I wonder if this is their space, the way Rowan and I claim her room or the plush couch in my basement.
I’m not a violent person, but hitting something sounds really good.
I draw back a hand and swing, throwing my whole body into it.
Ow. Ow. The bag swings slightly, but shock reverberates down my arm. I think I’ve dislocated every joint of every finger, but I can feel it, and it’s the first thing I’ve truly felt in weeks. It feels fantastic. I need one of these in my basement.
I grit my teeth and pull back my arm to do it again.
“Whoa.” A hand catches my arm in midswing.
I’m standing there, gasping, and Declan has a hold of my elbow. His eyebrows are way up.
“So . . . yeah,” he says. “I don’t want to be sexist here, but after the way you talk about cars, I didn’t expect you to throw a punch like that.”
I draw back and straighten, feeling foolish. “Sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I just don’t want to watch you break a wrist.”
“Here.” Rev half stands, holding out a pair of black padded gloves. He’s pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, and I wonder if he’s grown more comfortable around me—or if he’s just warm. “If you really want to beat on it, put on gloves "
― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)
40
" I wonder how much I can tell Rowan about this. I need another girl’s analysis.
My phone pings, and it’s her.
RF: Need to skip lunch. Meeting with teacher for Hon French project. You OK?
Well, there goes that. I text back that I’m fine.
Lunch is grilled cheese, green beans, and Tater Tots. I can already feel my pores clogging, but I didn’t bring anything, and the alternative is ice cream on a stick.
I head toward the back of the cafeteria, intending to go outside to sit on the quad and obsess over The Dark’s emails, but I spot Rev and Declan sitting at a table in the corner. Well, I assume it’s Rev. It could be some other broad-shouldered guy in a hoodie, but I doubt it. "
― Brigid Kemmerer , Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)
