Page 123 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
The good thing for me is that they’re one and the same.
And I find myself sharing, “We found her memory box in the ashes today.” Soot on her hands. Pain in her eyes. And joy in her remembrance. “Fuck, but she looks just like her mom.”
Smitty falls quiet—a rare feat. Then he slams his fist against his thigh. “I hate that she lost all she’s lost.”
“That makes two of us,” I mutter.
“She okay to come tonight?”
“She wanted to.”
“You okay?”
I think of Courtney’s reaction and my stomach twists.
But I ignore it.
“I have to be,” I mutter. “If I want to keep building something that isn’t what I had.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then he nods. “Yeah, I think you do.”
Forward. Just keep moving forward like my beautiful, strong Faye.
“She going to be okay on her own when we fly out day after tomorrow?”
That sends another bolt of nerves through me.
Because—
“Fuck, I hope so.”
Smitty goes quiet again, and I know his protective instincts have been triggered as deeply as mine.
Lost her parents. Her grandmother. Her house.
Too fucking alone in this world.
And now a good chunk of the family we’re building, the one who’s taken her under our wings, will be out of town for two weeks.
I love my job but, for the first time, I hate what it asks of me.
Faye is going to be alone and dealing with all the shit with her house and likely searching through the remains looking for more mementos and?—
I won’t be there.
And Courtney…fuck, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I can’t control her, but Faye’s got enough shit to deal with—she doesn’t need to take on mine either.
She should be baking banana bread and writing love stories, not fending off my ex.
She shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.
My temple starts to throb and swear to fuck, I can almost smell smoke, smell Courtney’s perfume, smell?—
“Fuck you too!” one of the younger guys shouts across the room as he tapes his stick, not a care in the world.
Fuck, but a lot has changed since those days.
