Page 22 of I Choose You

“I used to keep everything, honey.” The box jostles in her arms as I trail behind her, making it sound like whatever is inside is fragile. “But I’m changing my ways. Tell me how your drive was. You’re here earlier than normal. Dinner isn’t quite done yet, so I hope you ate a hefty lunch.”

I give Henny a smooch on his head before scratching the spot under his chin. She plops the box on the coffee table, then sits. “I had chicken salad for lunch, actually. Your recipe.” She smiles at this and pats the cushion next to her on the sofa before ripping the box open.

“Traffic was surprisingly light.”

“That’s okay. Means I get to spend more time with you.”

I smile. “Exactly.”

“Did you put apples or grapes in the chicken salad?”

Henny hops out of my arms when I sit to cozy into his favorite spot, the top of the sofa. “Both.”

“That’s the real way to do it,” she agrees. “Add in cranberries and,” she mimics a chef’s kiss, “perfection.” She takes an envelope out of the box as I settle back into the comfort of the cushions and lift a pillow to my lap. “What is Mason up to these days? And Luke? Is he still seeing that girl?”

“Layla?”

“That’s it. Such a pretty name. Are they still together?”

I nod even though she doesn’t see it. “Mason and I think he’s going to propose.”

She looks back at me with a quick elevation of her brows. “Really now? They must make each other happy then. Marriage is a big commitment. Lots of sacrifice and compromise.”

“You should see them together.” I fake gag to get the point across, and she swats at me for being dramatic. “It’s like they never want to leave each other.”

“That’s the way it should be. When you marry someone, it should feel like you’re marrying your best friend. That bond creates a strength that can withstand anything thrown at it.” She pulls another envelope out, and my interest peaks.

“What is that?”

“What’s what, honey?” she questions, too engulfed in our conversation about Luke and Layla to understand I’m referring to the box in front of her.

“In the box,” I say. “What’s in those envelopes?”

“Oh, these,” she holds her head high, and a genuine smile graces her face. “It’s old sports memorabilia your father left behind.”

My throat constricts at the mention of him. I regret asking. Hearing her say that word—father—makes me clam up and sours my mood. As much as I love her, I hate when she refers to him like that. He may have been around for the first eight years of my life, but that’s nothing compared to the other seventeen years he missed. “Oh.”

She moves her hand back and squeezes my forearm. It’s impressive that she can still catch the infliction in my tone or the shortness of my words now that I’m grown when my mood shifts. Then again, she’s aware of what the mention of him does to me. How it brings up memories I don’t care to have clogging my head. “I just figure it’s time to let go of the stuff that doesn’t carry much meaning. To be honest, I’m not sure why I held onto these for so long. They meant something to him, not me.”

“I wasn’t aware he enjoyed sports.”

Her genuine smile turns somber. “Oh, yes. Before you were born, we used to go to the local baseball games. Football, too. He loved it.”

“What’s in the box then?”

“Baseball cards, bobbleheads, that sort of thing. You want to see?”

The grown-up version of me wants to burn the box and all its contents, but the child in me reaches a palm out in wonder. The envelope she hands me is dusty with wear and has creases from years of being packed away. I’m gentle when I fold a flap down and pick out what looks to be a handful of cards. I shuffle them between my fingertips, taking notice of each player in a different position in their photo. There are career stats on the back—a whole bunch of mumbo jumbo that I don’t understand.

I do notice one thing, however. “These are in excellent shape.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve kept them in this box for years and years. And the envelopes helped protect them. It was all I had at the time.”

My gaze shifts to the side of her face as she moves through the stuff in the box, which is tilted on her leg away from the coffee table. If I lean forward the slightest bit, I would be able to see what else is inside, but I’m too apprehensive to get a closer look into his life. “And you’re going to get rid of them? Toss them in the trash?”

“What else am I supposed to do with them?”

My shoulders curl away from my face, and overwhelmed, my chest hitches. It’s not necessarily the fact that she’s getting rid of his stuff that bothers me. It’s that she’s throwing things out, period. I put my pillow to the side and scoot to the edge of the sofa. My brows force together in a frown, and I lean forward so I can get a good look at her. Having been through the wringer, Della Jones is a beautiful woman. The fine creases next to her eyes and the morning puffiness that lingers long into the afternoon only add to her unique beauty. “Mom,” I run my palm over her shoulder and gently hook my hand there. “What is going on? It’s unlike you to get rid of anything. I mean…look at your place. There is stuff everywhere.”

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