Page 122 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Why?” he murmurs, the word soft in my ear.
“Because then she’d pull out the family pictures, prove me wrong.” I close my eyes, remember sitting with her at the kitchen table, paging through the albums, memorizing each and every similarity I shared with them.
My mom’s hair and smile.
My dad’s eyes.
Nana’s nose.
Pieces of them in me…
And maybe I was never truly alone.
How can I be when they’re always a part of me?
He laughs softly. “Sweet, sneaky Faye.”
Smiling, I pull out the rest—my parents’ wedding rings, the necklace my mom picked out for my wedding day. My first book that I wrote when I was in preschool, the tale about a misbehaving dolphin barely legible, and we’re both laughing at what Gray calls my “truly inspired” crayon drawings that are very not dolphin-like.
“I think,” he murmurs after we’ve both pulled it together, “that when you rebuild, this”—a finger gently tapping the cover I’d colored with un-ocean-like streaks of puke green and red and neon pink (so maybe I hadn’t fully grasped continuity at four…or color theory)—“should get a place of honor on your bookshelves.”
I carefully settle it back into the box with the rest of the mementos then turn in the circle of his arms, cupping his face in my palms, streaking ash on his skin, not that he seems to mind.
“I love you,” I murmur, brushing my lips over his.
His mouth kicks up. “The real me or the fantasy me?”
I laugh, can’t help but kiss him as my amusement is still vibrating off my tongue.
Then I settle my forehead against his.
“The good thing for me is that they’re one and the same.”
Thirty-Nine
Gray
“So,” Smitty says, sinking down next to me.
“So what?” I ask as I tug on my socks.
It’s T-minus thirty minutes until game time and the locker room is full of professional hockey players in various states of dress.
Some are completely geared up, ready for the game, including their helmets.
Others, like me, want a complete undergarment change after warmups before I pull my equipment back on.
And a few weirdos, like Aiden, are downing their pregame meal of a gas station hot dog (or maybe that’s just Aiden).
Smitty is in between, dressed skates to waist.
“How’s my favorite girl?” he asks.
I scowl at him.
But then I think of the tears Faye shed over the photo of her parents. I think of the laughter we shared over her first book.
I think about her soft words?—
