Page 29 of Artfully Wild
I pull him back in, suddenly more self-conscious than I was a second ago with everyone watching us. “One more thing.”
“Yes, sweetheart?” he whispers, placing a gentle palm against my neck.
“Will you go on a date with me tomorrow?” I don’t know what he thought I would say, but I think I might have surprised him. His eyebrows are raised and by the gleam in his eyes, he is more than pleased I asked him instead of the other way around.
“You don’t even have to ask,” he says, closing the distance between us one more time and planting a light kiss on my lips, making me want more from him. I don’t think I could ever get enough.
“I’ll give you a time.”
“I’ll be there, little sparrow.”
My body melts again at the name and I swear I can feel the bird on my arm trying to pull me back as I walk down the sidewalk like it knows this is where I belong.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SKYLAR
The soft vibration from my phone a few inches away from my head would have been enough to pull me from sleep if that’s what I was doing. But I’ve been lying on Charlotte’s couch, staring at anything other than the book in my hands.
Worn leather and etched letters on the cover, I run the pads of my fingers over it, feeling every groove, remembering Sarah doing the same thing before she opened this book in our shared childhood bedroom.
Every time I open it now, my chest feels like it’s cracking—a fissure in a rock face spreading until it reaches the end, completely splitting apart, revealing the emptiness below. And every time, I jump into the dark abyss and see what words of Sarah’s are waiting for me.
At first when I opened the book, all I could do was stare at the words she wrote. Words she etched onto the pages for me while she was sick. Words she left on her favorite stationary and stuck inside the pages hidden for me to find, some folded and worn, others taped at the beginning of a chapter. I knew she loved this book, but I never saw her with it in her possessionwhen she was ill. I figured she had kept it, but I wasn’t prepared for this. Three years later and somehow Sarah found a way to talk to me. And then there’s the question of who has had it all these years? If they’ve had it and knew she meant it for me, why did they keep it? Why not give it to me right away? Why wait three years?
Anger burns in my chest at the thought of having this years ago, wondering if it would have made it easier. Then again, I don’t even know if this is something I could have handled then. I was too busy, too consumed with making sure everyone else was okay. Making sure Dad didn’t have to worry about the store.
Sinking my head further into the pillow, I allow my eyes to close and focus on taking deep breaths.
“You okay?” a soft whisper comes from the spot next to the couch. I glance down to see Avery looking up at me. She nods toward the unopened book still clutched in my hands.
“Not really,” I admit, surprising myself. Feelings aren’t really my strong suit. Sarcasm? Yes. I’ll make jokes and be a sarcastic asshole any day, any time. But a full on feelings talk? Not so much. By the slight shock on her face, I don’t think she expected me to say anything other than,Yes. I’m completely fine and the fact that I am holding my dead sister’s book that she annotated specifically for me as she was dying doesn’t faze me whatsoever.
“What is that?”
“Sarah’s,” I answer simply, because not only do I not feel like going into detail about the history of this book, but I’m not even sure where I would start.
“It was hers?”
“Yes, but now it’s mine, I guess.”
“You guess?” she asks, sitting up to lean on the cushions of the couch, her elbow brushing my hip. Body language that shows she is ready to fully listen.
I hesitate before opening it up to the title page where Sarah’sinscription is and hold it out so Avery can read it. A tear escapes onto her cheek before she brushes it away. “That’s…I’m not sure what to say to that.”
A quiet chuckle leaves my lips. “You know, Ave, I’m not really sure either. But here we are.”
“Did she write throughout the whole book?”
“I think so. I’ve only read a couple of chapters, but so far, there has been writing on every single page. Notes about a certain line, highlighted passages, some pages with writing on every inch of the margins, folded notes to me in between all of it. When I say Sarah was obsessed with this book, I mean it.” The memory of her hiding under her cover with a book light comes back to me. Mom would always stop to check on us a little after bedtime and without fail, Sarah would be hidden under the covers, curled up with this book, light cascading from underneath her covers.
“Do you want to read it alone?”
I almost say yes. Part of me wants to, but a bigger part of me is done not asking for help when I need it. The last few times I have read this alone, I’ve felt too many emotions to handle. Maybe having someone next to me, feeling some of what I am will…help.
“I don’t think so,” I answer. She leaves her spot on the floor and curls up on the chaise side of the sectional, her head settling next to mine. Once we are covered up, I open the book to the chapter I left off on.
“Chapter four; Martha,” I start reading aloud, quietly so I don’t wake up the others. I see Charlotte shift to her other side, eyes fluttering open and closed as she settles back into a deep sleep. Sophie opposite Charlotte is almost too still, like she’s pretending to be asleep, afraid if I know she’s awake I’ll stop reading. Taking a deep breath, a new sense of calm washing over me, I continue reading.
