Page 40 of Our Long Days
“No worries. I’ll text her.”
“It was ten. No, eleven.” Her voice strains, and a crimson stain creeps its way up her neck. The paper rips with her frantic movements. “I swear I wrote it down.”
She drops her hands to her lap, which is when I notice she isn’t wearing her rings. She’s always fidgeting with them, a tell she’s uncomfortable. Without them, she pinches the skin between her fingers.
“Florence, it’s okay.”
“It’s not, Dex.” She tugs harder, and raw skin glows bright red. “I had one job: take notes. And I screwed that up?—”
I reach over and take hold of her chin, tilting her panicked gaze to meet mine. My other hand falls to hers, grip firm to stop her from hurting herself. Her lip trembles, and it cracks me wide open.
“Breathe for me,” I instruct, tone a little harsher so she listens.
She sucks in a shaky breath. My hand falls to her shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles on her collarbone.
“Good. Again,” I murmur.
After the third deep inhale, she calms.
I duck my head, not letting her look away like I know she’s dying to. “They’re notes, Florence. It means a lot you care so much, but it’s not worth getting worked up over.”
She slumps into the chair. “I thought I had everything written down. My brain doesn’t want to cooperate today, and it was hard to keep up. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to let you down.”
I rear back. “Florence, you could never let me down.”
“Of course I can.I’m me.”She laughs dryly. “God, listen to me. You’re my boss, not my therapist.” She moves to stand, but the grip I still have on her shoulder keeps her in place.
“I’m your friend first.” Two emerald stones stare up at me, searching. “You don’t need to try. Not with me, Trouble.”
The silky skin under my fingers warms as I toy with the strap of her dress. No matter the warnings, my touch always finds her. It’s magnetic. The intentions are always innocent; a hand on a shoulder to comfort, quickly corrupted by flashbacks that don’t belong here.
“Florence, what’s going on? You’ve been crying.” Her mouth opens, but I cut her off. “Don’t lie to me. Whose nose am I breaking?”
The sweetest noise tinkles through the room, and when a small smile cracks through her stricken expression, I relax. “Booth’s.”
“Makes sense. He’s had it coming for a while,” I joke.
She contemplates her next words. My hand stays put.
“Do you know about the letters my brothers received from our dad?” she whispers.
“Yeah. Pat told me last year.” Realization dawns. “You received one?”
My heart aches as grief paints Florence’s expression. Dreary shades of gray wash away her bright, bold colors.
She reaches into her bag and retrieves a piece of paper.
Ted Sadler was an amazing man, husband, and father. Witnessing Claire and his kids grieve him was devastating. Florence was sixteen, and out of all of them, she took it the hardest. Her brothers were off doing their own thing while she was finishing high school.
I know of the letters he left and how Patrick stumbled upon them. Ted’s death was unexpected, and it’s anyone’s guess what he intended to do with them. From what I understand, her brothers have been passing the letters on to one another. It’s only right Florence receives hers.
Unfolding the paper, Florence smooths it out on the desk and pushes it toward me. “No letter for me, just a reminder that I’ve accomplished nothing, not even dumb things like fishing or dancing in the rain. How pathetic is that?”
I scan the writing. “Your dad left you this?”
Flo is a sucker for lists, a lovely quirk. Regardless, the pain and tears make sense now. I’ve read Patrick’s letter and heard about Graham and Booth’s. This is nothing like those.
I’m not sure what to say.
