Page 84 of Booked on You
Ezra
Yay! They were beautifully written, Scarlett. So happy for you! Good night.
Scarlett
Good night. Thank you for everything.
Ezra
Thank you.
I set my phone down and close my eyes.
As I drift off, I smile, knowing happiness is close enough to touch. This is the very feeling I’ve been chasing for a lifetime.
CHAPTER 20
EZRA
This morning, Scarlett didn’t meet me for coffee, but I know it’s because she’s still asleep. Yesterday, she worked nonstop, and I know she’s catching up on rest. It’s something I absolutely approve of.
Once the coffee is brewed, I move onto the back porch to take in the early morning. A cold front is approaching, and the temperatures are starting to drop. I enjoy the cool, brisk air against my skin as I rock on the porch swing, a warm mug cradled in my hands.
I stayed up far too late reading, compelled to finish Scarlett’s book. For hours, I tossed and turned, lying awake, thinking about what I read. The chapters were intimate, written with graphic detail. He begged to get her back and promised he’d do better when they made love.
Scarlett loved him. She wrote him in a way that was forgivable and humble, showed character flaws, but made him lovable, which I’m sure wasn’t easy. But reading between the lines, I still fucking hate that guy. I knew immediately when the story transitioned back to fiction, because in reality, her ex never changed. He cheated until the very end.
Personally, reading the last act was hard. It was the life Scarlett envisioned with that piece of shit. But I understand where her heart was and how sometimes we want people who aren’t good for us. I’m guilty of it, too.
“I’m so sorry he failed you,” I whisper, shaking my head and staring out at the cottage. The warnings were fair. Not because the book didn’t have a happy ending. It did; it was just too real, too relatable. Knowing it was based on Scarlett’s relationship only helped the allure. The hate her ex received was completely valid. My life will never be the same after reading it.
I take another sip of my coffee just as a Carolina chickadee lands on the porch railing, chirping once, as if demanding my attention. It was my mother’s favorite songbird. We make eye contact for a moment before it flies and disappears into the branches.
Mom is on my mind today, and I can’t stop thinking about the boxes of hers that are tucked away in my childhood bedroom.
Things are changing, and I need to confront the parts of my past I’ve avoided for far too long. Scarlett is doing it flawlessly.
After I finish my first cup of coffee for the day, I let out an even breath and stand with purpose.
It’s time. I can commit to going through a few boxes of my mother’s things, a little here and there.
I move through the kitchen, setting my mug on the counter before climbing the stairs. Each step is steady; determination guides me forward.
If I learned anything fromMy Everything, it’s that hiding from things that hurt us will never allow us to heal.
When I reach the spare room door, I take a deep breath, then turn the knob.
I push open the door, and sunlight stretches through the blinds in lines across the hardwood floor.
Dust particles swirl lazily through the air, dancing in the open space as I step inside. Boxes line one wall, stacked neatly, labeled carefully in my aunt Millie’s perfect handwriting. I couldn’t pack up my mother’s belongings, it was too hard, so she volunteered.
What’s left are the things Millie thought I should keep. Everything else was donated.
An ache rises in my chest, memories from my childhood flickering like an old movie in my mind.
I kneel, reaching for the nearest box. My fingers hesitate over the worn cardboard, then I open it. It feels like a treasure chest. Inside are some of my mom’s favorite clay bowls and cups, along with sketchbooks, pencils, and charcoal carefully bundled and untouched.
I run my thumb over the textured sketchbook cover, taking comfort in this small connection to her creativity.
