Page 332 of As the Rain Falls
“Yeah.”
Then, she smiles softly, laying her head against my shoulder and playing with the chain around my neck.
“Blink twice if you’re scared.” She tilts her head towards Kayla, her tone playful. “I’ll chase her away from you.”
I grin too, quickly looking away. “Don’t worry, baby. You already know I will.”
MARCH, 2017
LUCIA'S DIARY ENTRIES: DECEMBER 2013
Page 1
I hate him so much.I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate them all. I don’t trust a single person in this town. Not even Beckett. I can’t. I can’t trust anyone. They’re all liars.Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
Page 2
Antony says I’m making things harder for myself because I keep acting like a bitch. I told him he can go fuck himself. He went right back to her,even though he really wants me.
What if he doesn’t anymore?
This is becoming too complicated.
Maybe I should just get over him.
I love him. I love him too much. It hurts.
Page 3
I sometimes feel like I want to peel my skin off because I can’t takeit anymore. Why am I always just sad and depressed when I have everything. I have everything I could ever want.I have no one to talk to.
No one believes me anymore. They all think I’m this stupid girl who doesn’t have a clue. But I saw him punch her in the face. I saw it happen. I saw everything, even if no one else did.
GRIEVING IN SILENCE
Beckett
MARCH, 2017
It’s been almost sevenmonths since Lucia passed.
I stare at the calendar, feeling that familiar sense of numbness settle in my bones, creeping like a slow ache. It ruins my entire morning before it even begins.
Cassandra is having another two-week break from school because of strikes, and she spends most of it with me at the farm,petting Rosie, talking with Well, filling the quiet spaces with the sound of her voice.
It’s almost strange how right it feels, seeing her here, in what I’ve come to describe as my happy place. And yet, something is missing. Lucia was supposed to behere.
I know I have to make peace with the fact that she isn’t. I know that. But it doesn’t change the way my body responds. I can’t stop picking at the skin around my nails, tugging my hair, or jerking my feet beneath the table.
Lunchtime comes sooner than I expected it to. I sit down to eat the spaghetti Cassandra made, but I can’t even focus on the food for more than a second.
She notices.
Well doesn’t.
Her hand finds mine, gently circling my fingers, prying them apart until her thumb brushes over the bruised skin. It gives me something else to do, other than hurting myself, so I start playing with her fingers instead.
“Are there other fruits on the farm?” she asks, resting her head on my shoulder. Her voice is soft, easy, and soothing.
