Page 185 of Mister Stone
“What was the final outcome?” I ask, squeezing his hand.
“He got five years, and he’s financially finished.”
“Better than nothing,” Cammy says from the back.
“I’m just relieved his attempts at slandering my name weren’t heard by the public. That was my biggest concern.”
“It’s a good day.” I smile and lean backin my seat.
It’s not a far drive, but by the time we’re pulling into the driveway, my eyes are heavy.
“Want me to walk you over?” I ask over a yawn.
“I can manage,” Cammy says with an eye roll. She gets out of the car and lifts her hand in a goodbye as she walks up the path to her house. The only downfall is their front door is further from the driveway. Harmon insisted on expanding, but she told him not to. Said she likes seeing all the grass around the house. I understand that—all we had at the trailer was mud. At the apartment, it was concrete. Grass is nice. And so are all the flowers her and Chrissy plant every spring.
Harmon lets us inside after I watch Cammy get into her house and the lights flick on. There are lights along the walkway, so it’s not entirely dark. Chrissy will have no issue walking there later when she gets home, but whoever drops her off better make sure she gets inside alright. Not that it matters, since I won’t be sleeping until she does despite this house being outfitted with the best Phantom tech on the market.
She hasn’t had any big seizures since that day in Chicago three years ago, but she is afraid to get her license, though she does have her permit and will drive sometimes with us. Only short distances, though. I try not to feel bad for her. She hates that. But as she gets older, I notice that this is affecting her more than it used to. Now that she wants to be more independent, there is more fear popping up. All we can do is let her know we’re here for her for whatever she needs. And that’s what we do.
I shuffle to the bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt as I go. I’m peeling it off by the time I step into the bedroom and toss it on the chair. From the corner of my eye, I watch Harmon undress. We change into pajama pants and crawl into bed together.
I rest my head on his chest as his arm comes around me.
“Chrissy is going to be fine,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
I hum a sound of agreement, my eyes falling closed.
“I’ll wake you when she comes home.”
“Please,” I mutter.
There are shuffling sounds, then pages flipping, and Harmon begins to read as his fingers gently brush through my hair.
He does this every night, lulling me to sleep with his calm voice, reading me all sorts of stories.
It’s the most peace I have. And as I drift into sleep, the only thing I can think is that for the first time in my life, I’m not waiting for something to go wrong.
