Page 89 of Quiet Beautiful Things

I read it, wondering if he simply forgot to throw it away, or if he left it as a message to me.

Chapter Thirty-two

Blake

Ellie has a gun.

And we’re going to see Lucinda.

It’s no surprise I haven’t slept much at all the last two nights.

I mean, it makes sense, I suppose, El being from the city and all. But to get it out anddrawit just because I told her someone knocked on her door?

Something doesn’t add up.

I’m stalling getting out of bed and I know exactly why. I’ve been dreading this day since Lucinda sent me the text Friday night. There’s no way to tell Maisy where we’re going and who we’re going to see. I have no pictures of Lucinda. What if we walk in the place and Maisy sees her and runs away in fear?

On the other hand, what if she sees her and runstoher?

My hand works my jaw as I contemplate which of the two scenarios scares me more.

Light blinds me for a second. Then weight shifts on my bed as Maisy crawls into it. I can’t help my smile. It may have taken well over a month and an errant cockroach on the wall by her bed, but last week after she ran into my room to escape the bug, we had our first father/daughter snuggle. Ever since, she’s come into my room each morning, Bolt in her arms, and the three of us cuddle until someone’s stomach growls. Today it’s mine.

“Hungry?” I sign.

She nods.

“What do you want?”

She does the sign for pancake.

“You help,” I sign.

She scurries out of the room ahead of me, Bolt on her heels. By the time I hit the bathroom and get to the kitchen, she has the box of pancake mix, a spoon, and a bowl all ready to go. Maisy is a good helper. I shove the suspicion from my mind that she’s a good helper because she had to do so much for herself.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen island is a mess with powder and stray dollops of batter, and hot pancakes are steaming on a platter—two smiley faced ones for her and two snowman ones for me.

The faces on hers are remarkably crooked. She has learned how to drizzle batter for eyes and a smile. The ones she made today look more like Hannibal Lecter than emojis.

She giggles as I slip the creations onto her plate.

Maisy’s giggle has become one of my reasons for living. She can’t even hear it and has no idea what it does to my heart.

She dips a sliced banana into the syrup. The syrup drips off, leaving a trail of sticky dots on the table in front of her. I dab a finger on one of the drips then touch it to her nose. Then I dab another and touch it to her cheeks. She wipes her face, making it one big sticky mess. I laugh, wet a napkin, and get on my knees next to her, wiping her clean.

She smiles, dabs her finger in the sole remaining drip of syrup, then smears it on my nose and cheeks.

I wipe the tip of my nose then lick my finger, making a silly face afterward.

She giggles again. Then she does something that changes my world. She points to herself then crosses her arms over her chest then points to me.

My heart fucking stops. She signed “I love you.”

Tears come to my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away, not wanting her to misread my reaction. I’ve been signing the words to her for a week, even though I’m not sure she knows what they mean.

I love youcan be signed in different ways. I chose the ‘me love you’ way which has me pointing to myself, crossing my arms over my heart, then pointing at her. The ILY sign that is a combination of the three letters just doesn’t seem as emotional and expressive, and I need her to know that I don’t just love her casually, I love her fiercely. And forever.

I think I smile so big, my face just might split in two.

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