Read Online Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1) by Jasinda Wilder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jasinda Wilder
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slipping in the mess, and collapsed onto his back.
“Jan…” he murmured, the word a broken sob. A tear trickled down his cheek.
I sat with my back to the wall, watching my father weep in his drunken sleep. My proud, strong, father. He’d rarely ever even yelled or raised his voice, even when I’d hit a baseball into the windshield of his truck, or when he and Mom were arguing about something. I’d never seen him sad, or upset beyond irritation and quiet anger. Watching him cry now was simply too much.
Something with sharp, shuddering claws seized my chest and shook me. A sob wracked me, and another.
I clamped my teeth together and cried silently for a full minute, hot tears on my face, refusing to sob out loud. I was hyperventilating, gasping for breath, face buried in my hands, choking on my own tears. I had no thoughts, only sorrow. Confusion. I was alone in this. Dad was alone in this. Shouldn’t this bind us closer?
But there I was, alone in my agony.
I forced myself to my feet, wiping at my face with my palms. I found a towel from the hall linen closet and wiped up Dad’s mess. It was slimy and hot under the towel. It took four bath towels and half a can of Resolve carpet cleaner. I put the towels into the washing machine. After a few minutes of tinkering, I found the pull-out drawer for detergent, which was clearly marked with “normal” and “max” fill lines, and another cup for fabric softener. I found the corresponding bottles and filled the machine, turned it on, and set it to run on normal.
The first load of laundry I’d ever done on my own.
I felt older than fifteen. I felt ancient. Empty and worn through.
The kitchen was dark and silent and seemed like a foreign place, a strange land I’d never seen before. The green-blue numbers of the microwave clock read 3:32 a.m.
Now what?
I was exhausted, but knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Already, every time I closed my eyes I saw Mom, saw the way her eyes had gone dead. Her hand going limp. Dad smashing his fist against the door frame. Nurses watching with pointless sympathy. The flatline tone of the monitor.
I refused the sob that trembled inside me, closed my eyes and breathed through it. It passed, and I leaned back against the counter by the sink, listening to it drip, a slow pit…pit…pit….
The letter. Ever’s letter. I turned on the overhead light and sat down at the kitchen table, placing the crumpled envelope flat on the surface and smoothing it with my palm. I slid my finger under the flap.
Why was I nervous? There was no reason to be. I think I was hoping her letter would provide some kind of comfort.
Caden,
Or I suppose I might actually address the letters “Dear Caden,” since you are dear. To me, I mean. Is that weird? Maybe it is. “Dear” means, according to Google, “regarded with deep affection; cherished by someone.” I hope that’s not too weird for you, but I feel like you and I have a special connection. Do you think so, too?
I’m so, so sorry about your mom getting sicker. I can’t imagine going through that. When I lost my mom to the car accident, it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever experienced. One minute she was there, alive and fine, and then the next Daddy was telling me she was dead. No warning, just…dead. I was home, doing homework, and Daddy came into my room. He was crying. A grown man crying is just…wrong. Grown men don’t cry. They just don’t. You know? And he was crying, big fat tears on his cheeks and his chin, and he could barely get the words out. Still, I remember the moment as clear as day: “your mom…she was in a car accident, Ev. She’s dead. They couldn’t save her. On impact, they said.” He couldn’t say anything else, the words just wouldn’t come out. He hasn’t been the same since. He just…stopped being himself. Whoever he is now, it’s like some part of him died with Mom. You hear about that, right? You read about it
“Jan…” he murmured, the word a broken sob. A tear trickled down his cheek.
I sat with my back to the wall, watching my father weep in his drunken sleep. My proud, strong, father. He’d rarely ever even yelled or raised his voice, even when I’d hit a baseball into the windshield of his truck, or when he and Mom were arguing about something. I’d never seen him sad, or upset beyond irritation and quiet anger. Watching him cry now was simply too much.
Something with sharp, shuddering claws seized my chest and shook me. A sob wracked me, and another.
I clamped my teeth together and cried silently for a full minute, hot tears on my face, refusing to sob out loud. I was hyperventilating, gasping for breath, face buried in my hands, choking on my own tears. I had no thoughts, only sorrow. Confusion. I was alone in this. Dad was alone in this. Shouldn’t this bind us closer?
But there I was, alone in my agony.
I forced myself to my feet, wiping at my face with my palms. I found a towel from the hall linen closet and wiped up Dad’s mess. It was slimy and hot under the towel. It took four bath towels and half a can of Resolve carpet cleaner. I put the towels into the washing machine. After a few minutes of tinkering, I found the pull-out drawer for detergent, which was clearly marked with “normal” and “max” fill lines, and another cup for fabric softener. I found the corresponding bottles and filled the machine, turned it on, and set it to run on normal.
The first load of laundry I’d ever done on my own.
I felt older than fifteen. I felt ancient. Empty and worn through.
The kitchen was dark and silent and seemed like a foreign place, a strange land I’d never seen before. The green-blue numbers of the microwave clock read 3:32 a.m.
Now what?
I was exhausted, but knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Already, every time I closed my eyes I saw Mom, saw the way her eyes had gone dead. Her hand going limp. Dad smashing his fist against the door frame. Nurses watching with pointless sympathy. The flatline tone of the monitor.
I refused the sob that trembled inside me, closed my eyes and breathed through it. It passed, and I leaned back against the counter by the sink, listening to it drip, a slow pit…pit…pit….
The letter. Ever’s letter. I turned on the overhead light and sat down at the kitchen table, placing the crumpled envelope flat on the surface and smoothing it with my palm. I slid my finger under the flap.
Why was I nervous? There was no reason to be. I think I was hoping her letter would provide some kind of comfort.
Caden,
Or I suppose I might actually address the letters “Dear Caden,” since you are dear. To me, I mean. Is that weird? Maybe it is. “Dear” means, according to Google, “regarded with deep affection; cherished by someone.” I hope that’s not too weird for you, but I feel like you and I have a special connection. Do you think so, too?
I’m so, so sorry about your mom getting sicker. I can’t imagine going through that. When I lost my mom to the car accident, it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever experienced. One minute she was there, alive and fine, and then the next Daddy was telling me she was dead. No warning, just…dead. I was home, doing homework, and Daddy came into my room. He was crying. A grown man crying is just…wrong. Grown men don’t cry. They just don’t. You know? And he was crying, big fat tears on his cheeks and his chin, and he could barely get the words out. Still, I remember the moment as clear as day: “your mom…she was in a car accident, Ev. She’s dead. They couldn’t save her. On impact, they said.” He couldn’t say anything else, the words just wouldn’t come out. He hasn’t been the same since. He just…stopped being himself. Whoever he is now, it’s like some part of him died with Mom. You hear about that, right? You read about it
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