Page 127 of Imperfect Arrangement
It’s been thirty days.
Thirty damn days since she left, since I’ve spoken to her, and somehow—by some goddamn miracle—I haven’t completely lost my shit.
“It’s beautiful, Daddy. Isn’t it?” Quill’s voice pulls me back, her wide eyes shining with something so pure it makes my throat tighten.
“Yeah, sweetheart. It really is.”
She holds her sunflower a little tighter, a quiet smile playing at her lips. “I have a feeling she’ll be back soon.”
My heart clenches. I don’t know how she can be so sure, but I envy her confidence. It’s her and her faith that’s been keeping mine from slipping through my fingers.
The ride starts moving again, bringing us gently back to the ground.
When we step off, Decent Joe waves us off. “Take care of yourselves, you two. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I squeeze Quill’s hand, nodding at Joe before leading my daughter back toward the car.
Tomorrow. Same time. Same place. Same wish.
And one day, the fairies my daughter believes in will finally listen.
As soon as I pull onto the street after dropping Quill off at school, that nagging sensation of being watched creeps up my spine again. I glance at the rearview mirror, half expecting to catch sight of a pastel green truck with Whispering Willow painted on the side.
Nothing. Damn it.
I exhale, gripping the wheel a little tighter before shaking my head.
It’s okay, Ray. She’ll come back when she’s ready.
The day drags by in a monotonous haze. Meetings. Emails. More meetings. My usual routine plays out like clockwork. In the evening, Quill and I have dinner, her soft chatter and signing fingers filling the spaces Willow left behind. I tuck her into bed, read her favorite book, and press a kiss to her forehead before turning off the light.
When the house falls into its usual quiet, I find myself back in the one place that holds every single memory of her. The pergola. This is when I miss her the most. For so many months, it was just the two of us here. Her laughter. Her teasing. The way she’d roll her eyes at me or lean into my touch. Now, it’s just me.
My phone sits on the table, taunting me. Every single night, it tests my patience, and every single night, I resist. I could call her, just one call, one conversation, one damn chance to hear her voice again.
But if I do that, then what does it say about the wishes Quill and I make every morning? That I don’t believe in them like my bug does?
That’s the only thought that stops me.
I force myself up and march back inside, heading straight for my bedroom, determined to sleep. But the second I hit the mattress, I know—there’s no fucking rest for me tonight.
The restless energy that’s been gnawing at me since this morning only gets worse. I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over a contact that didn’t even exist on my phone until a month back but is now on my speed dial.
Screw it. I press call.
DJ picks up on the second ring.
“Raymond? This a late-night call or an early-morning one?”
“I need a favor.” I’m already reaching for my car keys. “I want to go on the Ferris wheel.”
There’s a pause, then a slight shuffle like he’s adjusting himself in bed. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
He’s silent for a second, and I can practically hear him trying to figure out what the hell is going on in my head. But to his credit, he doesn’t ask questions.
“Alright,” he finally says. “Give me thirty minutes. I’ll meet you there.”
