Page 76 of Knot By Design
late-stage MS behavioral changes
how to help a parent with emotional outbursts
caregiver burnout signs
Each article punches a hole in my chest.
Should I call my father?
My jaw locks.
The last person Mom would want is him. And the last person I want is a man who walked out on us when I was still a kid.
So no. He doesn’t get a damn phone call.
I close the search tab and lean back, staring at the ceiling.
I want comfort. I want someone who makes me feel like everything will be okay.
I want her.
Norah.
It’s nearly three.
She hasn’t contacted me all day. Why hasn’t she called me? Texted me?
My chest tightens. I want to tell myself it doesn’t matter. But it does. It does in ways I don’t even have words for.
She looked at me last night like she wanted to swallow the stars and hand me the light.
She smelled like sugar and snow and heat blooming under her skin.
She fell apart in my arms in the best possible way.
And then I left.
I scrub my hand down my face. Should I text her? Would she even respond?
Is she upset?
Does she hate me?
I miss her. I miss her so damn much.
I tell myself I’m going to grab lunch. I tell myself to get in my car and go to the diner and eat a normal meal like a normal adult.
But my hands move without my permission. The car engine starts, the heater sputters to life, and somehow—someimpossible, gravitational somehow—I end up turning onto her street.
Norah pulls me in like the tide. Like she’s the moon and I’m the water, and I never really learned how to resist her.
By the time I reach the shop, I know I’m not turning back.
I park, step out, pull my scarf tighter. The air bites at my cheeks. The bell above her shop door chimes as I push it open.
She’s crouched on the floor, wiping up spilled potting soil and crushed poinsettias. Her hair falls over her shoulder in soft auburn curls, a wrap dress hugging her hips, her boots braced against the tile.
She stands when she hears the bell, a bright, automatic smile already forming on her lips. “Hi, welcome?—”
