Page 86 of When Sky Breaks

Tonight’s dream wasn’t about the fire or losing Chase.

It was the night August left.

Raw pain lances through my ribcage as I relive it again in stark clarity. His face, drenched in rain and tears, begged me to stay and hear him out. But I was so overcome with a cruel and relentless shock, I ran home to confront Trek. Then, in the days after, I questioned every person’s intent in my life. Trek betrayed me, August gutted me, who else would send my world crashing to the ground?

Tears clog my throat.

I can’t stay here in this bed. I need, I need…

My breath is ragged as I take in gulps of air to steady myself.

I need August.

I need the safety of his arms, the press of his kiss to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. I need that security he so often gave me, the calmness I took for granted when it was gone.

I look at the time on my phone. It’s too late to text him, to get some shred of comfort from his words until I see him again. I’m so close to shutting the door to my past and moving on. With him.

My feet thump to the floor once I swing myself over the side of the bed. Winter whimpers and follows me from the room. In the living room, I pace, scrubbing sleep from my eyes with Winter on my heels, trying to erase those feelings of abandonment.

Finally, I plop down onto the stool at the island and lay my head down on the cool marble. I just breathe, watching as the air from my lungs exits my mouth and ruffles the edges of a stack of mail on my right. I forgot all about bringing it with me. Foster kept everything that arrived at the house in my name.

Perfect distraction.

It’s mostly junk mail, credit card solicitations, meal plan services, and various department store magazines with their Christmas sales. It’s not even Halloween. Annoyed by yet another holiday magazine, I flip through the rest quickly. Which ends up dumping half to the floor.

Groaning from lack of good sleep, I slip to the wood and begin picking them up.

A cream envelope with The Magnolia Place logo peeks out of another magazine. The rest left scattered, I sit back on my heels and stare. Receiving mail or anything from there is new. Once I was adopted, there wasn’t a reason to go back except for the school project senior year of high school. The moment my relationship with August fell apart.

Curiosity takes over, and I rip open the envelope, smoothing out the white letter on my lap. In neat handwriting, it reads:

Dear Sky,

Everyone here hopes you’ve been doing well. We miss your smiling face and positive attitude, but are sincerely over the moon that your life is turning out to be everything you’ve dreamed of. Being a nurse is a selfless occupation, and we all know your heart is big enough for the job. We here at Magnolia Place are so proud of you!

For the third year in a row, we’ve been incredibly grateful for the donation that has been placed in your name. Mr. Moore’s gracious actions have allowed us to add on to the facility, thus providing an opportunity to help more girls in unfortunate circumstances.

Mr. Moore did not leave any forwarding contact information, but we would love to send our gratitude and provide any paperwork necessary for tax purposes.

We wish you all the health and happiness life offers. Never hesitate to reach out to us for anything.

We love you!

-Sandy

Stunned, I flop onto my ass and reread the letter. It takes four times before it all sinks in.

Winter peers at me from her place near my hip. “Your daddy…he’s—oh god, he’s amazing,” I whisper to her, laughing through the knot in my throat and stinging in my eyes.

He did this for me. He did this for others who might have experienced similar circumstances and needed a safe place to go. He put his hard-earned money—if those pictures in a freaking book have anything to say—toward a cause dear to me.

This version of August Moore stuns me with a rattling clarity. Two opposing things can be true at the same time. I can mourn and grieve the loss of Chase and still forgive the man behind his passing.

The world is cruel enough, and to punish either of us further denies us the chance at honoring his death—by living and loving and seeing the beauty in between the darkness.

Through the tears running down my face, I crack for August again, but this time, I’m not shattered to pieces with heartbreak. I crumble under the weight of his love. It’s quiet and unassuming, and if you’re not paying attention, you might miss it. But I see the force of his devotion, and it rocks me to my core.

Shortly after peeling myself off the kitchen floor, I tumble into August’s empty room, my ribcage barely able to contain the thrashing of my heart. I wish he was here—all adorably rumpled with sleep, snoring softly, with a relaxed look on his face as he dreams.

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