Her mouth opens, breath caught in her lungs for a beat before she says, “And I…”
The words don’t come. How could they? They’re too painful to say out loud, but they’re written all over her face.
I’m going to miss you, Haddy.
Me too, Mom.
23
g.e.m. is a p.o.s.
Rowan
Hannah’salready here by the time I return from running errands.
She sits on the porch swing, hair thrown into a messy knot and wearing a fitted cotton tank top with athletic shorts.
“You’re early,” I say, walking up the steps.
“If you’re not early, you’re late.” Her eyes widen when she takes in the cardboard box in my hands. “What’s that?”
“I grabbed some pastries in case you were hungry.”
She ambles over, eyes slitted like a con artist plotting her next shenanigan. “That’s a big box, Rowan.”
I offer a proud grin and open the lid.
“Is that—” A pause, then a beaming smile that sends my heart straight up my throat. “One of everything?”
“Wasn’t sure which one you’d like.”
Her hand hovers over the box until she decides on the lemon bar. “You guessed right, big guy.”
“That’s probably a safe choice. Would hate for you to ruin another outfit.”
She stares, I lift a brow. Undeterred, Hannah stuffs the entire pastry into hermouth.
“Cute,” she attempts through full cheeks, sending a mist of crumbs flying, dowsing my shirt.
I look down at the white clouds of powdered sugar clinging to my chest, brush some of it away. Not nearly as cute as the mustard mishap at the gas station. “So only mine then. Cool.”
A deep, beautiful laugh bursts out of her like a cannon. One second of that sound and I couldn’t care less about the stain.
She swallows down the last of the lemon bar, her chuckle fading into a yawn. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
My eyes catch on her wrist where the faint bruises from the other night are still visible.
“Everything okay?” I try to sound casual. Except, I’ve spent enough time in therapy working through the haunting memories that kept me up at night during my time in the military to know a trauma response when I see one.
Lydia told me her daughter masks. Everyone does to an extent. Sometimes the only way past theI’m finesis to have someone who sees through the armor and patiently walks alongside you until you’re ready to take it off.
Hannah’s reply comes as expected, easy-go-lucky expression locked in. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep. That’s all.”
I offer a reassuring smile and usher her into the house. Even though I pretend not to recognize the lie, I make a silent promise to keep showing up until that mask falls.
Inside, after we down a couple more baked goods, we set to work on painting.
Our conversation last night was monopolized by talk of my grandfather. And I cherished every word. But today I want to talk about her. Her life since we last saw each other, her job, her mom’s prognosis. The good, the bad, the ugly—I want to know everything.