Page 27 of The Sound of Forever
“Never said she was.”
The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by the sound of our footsteps on the uneven sidewalk. A group of kids bursts out of a store ahead of us, their excited shouts echoing in the narrow street. A frazzled parent calls after them, “Stop running or we’re going home.”
I groan, the noise scraping against my nerves like sandpaper. This is more painful than trying to balance on one leg in physical therapy after my accident.
“You don’t like kids, huh?” Zeke’s voice is almost teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity. “No wonder you’re always avoiding my family.”
I stop in my tracks, turning to face him. The words are out before I can stop them. “It’s not that I don’t like kids. It’s that I . . .” My voice falters, the rest of the sentence catching in my throat like barbed wire.
Zeke stops too, his teasing demeanor fading as his expression softens. “It’s that what?” he asks, his tone quiet now.
“I avoid them,” I state.
My fists clench at my sides as I push the words out, each one feeling like it scrapes against my throat. “Have I ever told you we lost ours? Our baby?” The confession lingers between us, raw and exposed, a truth I barely dare to say out loud.
“Ophelia was pregnant,” I continue, my voice cracking under the strain. “We were going to have a daughter. And then the accident happened.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I whisper, my voice raw. “But if I hadn’t been . . .” My words trail off, swallowed by the lump in my throat.
Zeke exhales slowly, his hand landing on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “And I’m not saying that to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. If it had been, they would’ve pressed charges after the other driver—who was at fault—died.”
I nod, even though I don’t believe him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I didn’t do anything to avoid the accident. It’s all the same.
Zeke doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch out. I’m grateful for it.
“Having that kid next door,” I say finally, my voice shaking, “Rayne . . . it’s like the universe is screwing with me. She’s an orphan. And her aunt . . . Julianna? She’s trying so damn hard, and I see it. I see it, and it makes me want to . . . I don’t know.”
“You want to help her,” Zeke says simply.
I stop walking again, this time out of sheer frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to help anyone when I can’t even help myself?”
Zeke steps in front of me, his expression calm but firm. “By starting small,” he says. “By doing something. And maybe, just maybe, by getting out of your own damn way for once.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.
“It means,” he says, crossing his arms, “that Julianna’s not just some random woman doing yoga in her yard. She’s a trauma specialist. She works with people who’ve been through hell. People like you. You think it’s a coincidence she ended up next door?”
I stare at him, the words sinking in slowly. “You know her?”
“No, Nydia told me all about her,” he says. “She’s good at what she does. And she’s not the type to give up, even when things get messy.”
I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “What are you saying, Zeke? That I should ask her for help? Because that’s not happening.”
“Not help,” he says. “Work with her. She might be good for your physical recovery. Build some kind of routine. It’ll do you good. And who knows? Maybe you’ll stop feeling like the universe is fucking with you and start seeing this for what it is: a chance to get your shit together.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not. I fucking know how hard it is to try and fall apart. The key is finding what’s right for you and doing it for yourself,” Zeke says. “You need a start, Keane. You can’t keep running forever.”
I want to argue, to push back, but deep down, I know he’s right. I’ve been running for too long, and it’s gotten me nowhere.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, my voice low.
Zeke claps a hand on my shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s all I’m asking. Well, that and you should join us for dinner next weekend.”
“You’re pushing it,” I groan.
“Consider it. My kids can be messy, but also loving,” he says proudly.
