Page 9 of Our Long Days
“On top of all that, I’ve neglected to see a doctor about the ADHD diagnosis I received almost two years ago.Twoyears, Dex. It’s no wonder my brain is at war with itself.” She catches my perplexed expression and pauses. “Shit, I’m talking too fast, aren’t I?”
I’m thrown, mentally running through the best response.
“You’re not,” I assure her. “I, um, didn’t know you had ADHD.”
“No one does. Only my mom. I love my brothers, but they…worry, and sometimes, it feels like they’re tired of my antics. If I suddenly go, ‘Hey, take it easy on me, I have ADHD’, they’ll see it as an excuse. I have to come to terms with it myself first.”
All the Sadler siblings are close, but I get what Florence is saying. Master of avoidance here.
“Give yourself some grace. You don’t have to have it all worked out now.”
“I’m…” Moisture brims the corners of her eyes, and she sucks in a breath, fingers twisting in her lap. “I’m so tired of being the messy little sister.”
Without thinking, my hand covers hers, swallowing her nervous movements. “You’re the farthest thing from messy, Florence. Few people can say they’ve traveled across nine countries and done the things you have. You light up the roomwith your smiles and laughter. Fuck, you always have, but especially tonight. My evening was dull and flat before you walked in. It might not seem like it, but you’ll land on your feet. Don’t let that spark dim because of other people’s opinions, okay?”
She blinks, mouth slightly ajar. “Okay,” she whispers.
“What’s on your list?”
This perks her up a little. “Find my own place.”
I nod. “And?”
There’s a moment of hesitation. “It’s stupid. I make these lists, and half the time, they’re never completed.”
“Sounds smart. Organized.” My thumb circles the back of her hand. At some point, Florence’s delicate fingers began tracing the anchor tattooed on the knuckle of my index finger. The space between us is basically non-existent now, and her bare knee brushes my thigh. “You should see the state of my filing cabinets.”
She grimaces. “Filing cabinets? Like…paper?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“This is the twenty-first century, Dexter. We have this thing called the Cloud now.”
A high-pitched squeal fills the air as I dig my fingers into her side. After her body stops shaking with laughter, my touch lingers, one hand wrapped around hers, the other resting on the curve of her hip.
I don’t dare move.
Her emerald orbs pin me in place.
“What else?”
She swallows, and I find myself entranced by the way her throat bobs, the tendons pulling taut.
“My passion.” Her voice is hushed, but I make out every word. “I want to find my passion, something I’m good at. Something that’ll make my family proud.”
Telling her they are proud seems counterproductive.Determination ripples from her in waves, matching the thrum of her pulse.
“You’ll find it, Trouble.” The nickname slips free, plucked from the air.
It’s fitting, because everything about this moment is troublesome.
The corner of her mouth hitches. “Dex?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you…” She draws her bottom lip between her teeth then shakes her head.
As if possessed, the hand on her hip drifts up to her mouth, grazing her chin to pull her lip free. It’s full, pink, and glistening. “What, Florence?” I rasp.
