"It’s amazing to see," my father says. “When Dad started this tradition, it was only Ethan."
"Now there are five hundred of us," I joke. My father puts Grace down and holds her hand.
"I heard you pushed it in the gym,” he says, and I nod.
"Yeah, it’s been good,” I say. “I have an appointment on Tuesday with the same doctor Ethan used to talk to."
"He’s good," my father says, and I nod. My father played a big part in Ethan coming back home. "Came highly recommended back then, so I can only imagine now."
"I have about three more weeks,” I say, and he smiles, and then you see the sadness in his eyes.
"I missed you,” he says softly.
"We spoke all the time,” I say, the guilt starting to creep over me now.
"I know,” he says, and Grace lets go of his hand. “Go see Grammy," he tells Grace, and we watch her walk toward my mom. "But having you here," he says, “I just realized how much I missed you.” He puts his hand around my neck like I did to Gabriel not long ago. “Even your shitty attitude.”
I laugh. “I never had a shitty attitude,” I say, and his hand comes up to slap his stomach as he bursts out howling with laughter.
"It was close," he says. “I thought I was going to have to knock you out at one point." I look over at him. “You need to thank your mother and your grandfather for saving your life."
I shake my head. “You didn’t even know you were being a little shit." My father looks at me. “You were miserable, completely and utterly miserable, and the minute you told us you were leaving, you were a changed person."
"I didn’t know that you knew,” I say softly, feeling bad about the way I acted without even knowing. “I thought I hid it."
"Maybe to the people who didn’t know you or have to live with you," my father says. “But to anyone who knew you." He shakes his head. “It was your grandfather who called it." My eyebrows pinch together. “‘Set him free,’" he told me. “He’ll come back." My father looks toward Quinn and Harlow, who laugh at something. “The hardest thing in my life was having you leave, knowing in my heart you would never come back." I see the tears form in his eyes. “Keeping strong in front of your mother was the second hardest thing." He smirks, turning and slapping his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll never understand until you have a child,” he says. I want to hold up my hand and tell him that it will never happen. "Why don’t you do your dad a favor,” he says, “and come spend the day with me tomorrow?"
Seeing my father so open with me shifts something inside me, knowing he knew how unhappy I was and that he struggled with it just as much as I did. Today is a good day, I think to myself. Today, for the first time in six years, I’m happy to be here. I say the word that shocks both of us, not knowing just how much my life is going to change. "Okay."
Chapter 8
Hazel
* * *
The smell of lemon fills the air as I pass the hardwood floor in the living room. “Okay,” I say, walking back to the pails and rinsing it off once. I wash it one more time before I think it’s clean enough. The soft breeze from outside comes into the house. For the past two days, I’ve been cleaning the house from top to bottom. I was doing everything I needed to in order to keep myself from breaking down, but I was starting to wear thin. The days are filled with cleaning the house, and the nights are filled with regret and questions. I start angry and then slowly end up with my head on the kitchen table while I sob. My grandfather is gone, and now I have to give up the only thing I have left of him.
* * *
Billy showing up is a sign. If anyone out there was willing to buy the farm, it would be the Barneses. It’s no secret that they own most of the properties, so what’s one more?
Asking Billy to buy the farm was a huge thing. Now that I knew Casey would be coming around, my nerves were on edge. I’m barely sleeping, and when I do, all I do is dream of Reed, which makes me wake up in a pissed-off mood. "Why don’t we start moving the furniture?" I look at Sofia, who is wearing jean overalls with rubber boots.
* * *
The company just came by and picked up Pops’ hospital bed. "Where do you want to put this?" Sofia points at the recliner where Pops used to sit.
* * *
"That," I say with a smile on my face. “Goes right here.” I push it to the spot in the corner where it always was. “You know why?" She shakes her head. “Because you can see who comes to the front door,” I say, pointing at the window and seeing that it is true, but now with the overgrown weeds, you can’t see anything really. “And you see the television perfect.” She nods her head at me, and I push the stuff around. The hair on the top of my head is slowly falling out of the bun. It takes me over an hour of pushing to fix things. The whole time, Sofia is either sitting and watching or “helping.”
* * *
"There," I say, pushing the couch against the wall. “How’s this?" I look over at Sofia, who is helping by pushing her side of the couch.
* * *
"I like it,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “Comfy." She pats the space next to her. “Come sit, Momma."
* * *
"Okay." I smile as I sit next to her, putting my arm around her and pulling her to me. I kiss her soft brown hair. "Much better,” I say, looking down at her. “You make everything better, Sofia." The ding of the kitchen timer rings, letting me know my cookies are ready.
* * *
Sofia flies off the couch and jumps up and down. “It’s ready." She puts her hands together with excitement.
* * *
"They are,” I say, getting up and walking to the kitchen.
* * *
"Be careful, Momma," she tells me. “It’s hot."
* * *
I laugh at her and grab the oven mitt, opening the oven. The two baking trays are on the middle rack, and the cookies are a golden brown. “They look good,” I tell Sofia, putting them on the stovetop. She comes over to stand next to me, not getting too close, and gets on her tippy-toes. Ever since I had Sofia, baking has been my favorite pastime. I had a book of recipes from my great-grandmother that Pops brought me when he visited once Sofia was born. Batch after batch, I would give it my own spin. It even helped out when things were tight, and I would sell the cookies at school. Word spread, and it was a quick side job, but I’ve not done this in a while. The only cookies I bake now are for Sofia’s school and us.
* * *
"Can I have one?" she asks.
* * *
"Soon,” I say, and she yawns. “Are you tired?" She shakes her head and rubs her eyes. She woke up at four thirty today and refused to go back to sleep.