Page 65 of Endgame

Her bright smile greets me. I’m entertaining her, and she’s enjoying it. There is no chance I’ll ever forget this night. It’s ingrained in my brain for eternity.

When her laughter finally dies down, her hazel eyes find mine again, “Please tell me. What is with you and these random facts about nothing important, Callaway?” She’s still laughing in between words, and it makes me want to spew random bullshit phrases, just to keep her laughing.

A little piece of myself is coming for her.

“When my parents first adopted me, the change was pretty substantial. I went from a double-wide junky trailer with my birth mother to a new foster home, adopted into a home full of wealth, not wealth in the physical sense, but the wealth of love and family. The contrast of the three is such a strange thing to process. Although I was happy to be adopted by a good family finally, the adjustment was hard. Looking back, I didn’t let myself get too comfortable, thinking they’d change their minds and send me back. I know now that’s the farthest thing from the truth. I went through a period of timewhen I didn’t talk much. I looked out for Navy and obeyed the house rules, but the drive to speak wasn't there. My parents knew I was struggling, so my mom started using stupid, funny jokes to break the ice and create some conversation. We still do it to this day.”

I know that was long winded, but her eyes haven’t strayed from my face yet. She’s locked in on me and hanging onto every word I have to say.

Respond, baby. I’m letting you in.

Lost in thought, she takes the words right from my head: “That makes me love your parents even more now. I’m so happy you were able to find a home that had so much love to give you. Your story reminds me a lot of mine.”

The openness she’s giving me makes me fall for her more. I’m so gone for this woman; I’ll never survive her.

From what I can tell, she loved her parents very much. They must have been pretty incredible to raise someone as strong as her.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I ask her, “Will you tell me about them?”

She speaks up without hesitation, “God, they were saints, Callaway. Sometimes I can still hear my mom in the kitchen giving my dad hell for leaving his paper towels all over the place.” She giggles to herself like she’s watching the scene play out in her head. “He had this weird thing about washing his hands constantly and leaving paper towel trails all over the house, more so the kitchen. It drove my mom crazy. They’d be bickering at each other one moment, then kissing each other the next. They were so good. My dad even submitted one of my photos to a showcase a couple of months before their passing. I actually ended up getting in, and he was so proud, ready to go buy every one of my prints they featured. Except it was too late. They passed two weeksbefore the showcase, and I withdrew my photos. It wouldn’t have been the same.”

The volume of her voice slowly starts to lower as she guts me, “And tomorrow, I’m scheduled to meet a realtor about selling our family home. It’s like as soon as I’m finally standing on my own two feet, life pushes me face first to the ground again.”

The darkness settles back over her mood, not fully taking over, but enough that I can tell it found purchase in her.

I’m stunned and not quite sure what to say; somehow, I think my silence brings understanding to her mood. She knows I care. But letting someone share something so vulnerable doesn't always call for a response; silence can mean so much more than words. Knowing nothing I say can take away her pain, I do my best to support her in the way I know how. My hand reaches across the center console and holds hers tightly against her lap. No words are spoken, but the silence between us feels peaceful. Dakota shared such an intimate part of herself with me, and I’m grateful to be trusted with it. With our hands entwined together, we drive until her soft snores are the only sound between us.

There’s so much more to this spectacular woman. She’s been through the unthinkable, yet blissful memories are the only ones she finds worth sharing.

Although I’d gladly take the good, the bad, and the ugly, as long as it came fromher,the woman who seems to be living up to her name.

Angel.

28

DAKOTA

It’s too bright.Jesus, what time is it?

I find the energy to lift my restless body from my bed to check the time.

8:00 am. Why does it feel so much earlier?

It’s probably because I spent a better portion of last night spilling my pathetic life story to a man who’s most likely been through worse.

Yeah, that adds up.

Except he listened and took my story in stride. His silence proved his intention to listen, not be an overpowering man attempting to fix it.

My parents would start essential conversations with the question,“Do you want me to listen or fix it?”The fact I didn’t have to ask Callaway to listen means more than he could ever know.

Deciding to get myself up and make today one that counts, I muster up the energy to shower, brush my teeth, and head to my closet to find something to wear. What’s an appropriate outfit to wear to the selling of your dead parents’home? Black seems too morbid, but bright colors also seemtoohappy for something of this significance.

I’m thinking too much into this.

I settle on a blue and white striped form fitting midi dress, all white Dunks, and some gold jewelry. It feels cute without trying too hard.

I wouldn’t wish this on my biggest enemy.

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