Page 8 of My Best Years

As much as I’ve craved her touch and the sound of her voice, I never want her to search for me. Until the day my father dies, I will be linked to a monster.

I’ve thought about what my life will look like when he dies. For my own sanity, I don’t let myself search Birdie’s name on social media because I think it would drive me insane. Of course, I hope she’s happy. But seeing her with someone else is an unthinkable pain that I’d rather not subject myself to.

But one day, when he’s dead and buried…When I know that he can’t hurt anyone else, I’ve thought about reaching out to Birdie Wren. Just to listen to the sound of her breathing. Just to hear her feathery voice again. And maybe she’d want to hear mine too.

Even though I hope she’s moved on, I wonder if there’s still a hole in her heart. Because there’s damn sure one in mine.

I look down at my arm, wincing as I brush my thumb against the small tattoo on the inside of my wrist. My fingers tremble, and even though Dr. Martin says it’s just stress, I know that this pain is for a different reason.

I miss her. I miss her in my bones. And that willnevergo away.

FIVE

Birdie

May

I made the temporary move to Alabama exactly one week ago, and I’ve been living off of takeout and frozen meals since I arrived. I’ve been swamped with unpacking and organizing my apartment, so proper nutrition has been at the bottom of my list. But I start my new job at Gulf Shores Memorial Hospital tomorrow, so I finally decided to go to the local grocery store.

I’m focusing hard on my list as I walk down the aisles, making sure not to miss any items for the meals I have planned. Having worked at different hospitals, I’ve learned that meal prepping is the easiest and cheapest way for me to eat. I’m always on the go, and every day looks different, so having my food cooked and ready is just one less thing I have to worry about.

Click. Click. Click.

Screeeeech.

I roll my eyes and try to walk faster as mygrocery cart makes embarrassing noises with each step I take. It never fails—thisalwayshappens to me. Why can’t I ever pick a cart that isn’t obnoxiously loud?

I turn down aisle ten and head straight for the pasta section. I’ve been craving spaghetti carbonara topped with fresh parmesan. I halt my steps, pushing my cart forward a few inches to give myself some room. A small grunt leaves my lips as I stand on my tiptoes and reach for the box of noodles high up on the shelf.

Of course, the one box I need is placed at the very top.

My brows pinch together in concentration as my tongue peeks out of the corner of my mouth. My muscles strain as I barely get my fingers around the edge of the box.

“Almost…got it,” I mutter to myself as I stretch my entire body upward. I blow a strand of hair out of my face, wishing I had tied it back into a ponytail or a braid.

Cool air hits my belly, and I know that my gray tank top has ridden up. My jean shorts are high-waisted, but my lifted shirt still shows off a good amount of skin at this angle. Thankfully, I don’t remember seeing anyone else in this aisle but me.

One of the many things I love about living in a beach town is the warm weather. I love being able to wear casual clothes on a daily basis, knowing that no one will judge me because of it. In Gulf Shores, pretty much everyone is dressed like they’re ready to spend a day at the beach.

Once the box is firmly in my grip, I take a step back but quickly lose my balance. I stumble backward, shuffling my feet to keep myself from falling.

“Shit!” I curse as I throw an arm out to hold onto my grocery cart.

The cardboard box that started this entire conundrum goes flying as I let go and swiftly wrap my fingers around thehandle of my cart for stability. Before I have a chance to catch it, the box crashes against the ground and bursts open.

Dry noodles scatter everywhere. All over the shiny, concrete floor.

This is a disaster. A freaking disaster.

So much for a relaxing grocery run.

I close my eyes, inhale a frustrated breath, and try to keep my temper in check. I exhale through my nose, open my eyes, and prepare to start cleaning up the mess when my eyes lock onto a black head of hair.

It's not just ordinary black hair; it's full, thick, and curly on top.

It almost looks…messy.

“Your hair is messy.”

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