Page 97 of Always Love You More

I nodded. “How long have I …?” I couldn’t believe I was even asking this. “How long have I been glowing?”

She glanced over at me, blinking. “You’ve always glowed.” She turned back to look up at the sky, “Well, for me, anyway.”

“Wait, what?”

“Nobody else can see it.” She paused. “Even you couldn’t see it, but I kept telling you, remember?”

I shook my head because, for some reason, I couldn’t seem to remember anything but that moment.

“I told you one day you’d see it, too.” She laughed lightly. “I must have told you a hundred times.”

“Then why didn’t you just give up?”

“Because—”

I never got to find out her answer because my alarm shattered the dream. I tried to hold onto it long enough to hear what she was going to say, but it was no use.

I wanted to go back to sleep, back to that river. Floating there, everything felt so … easy. So right.

But I couldn’t.

The water is starting to run cold, so I move through the rest of my shower quickly.

Stepping out, I stop in front of the sink and rub away the fogged-up mirror with the palm of my hand. My eyes instantly go to the new tattoo I got on my other shoulder—a clock that looks melted so you can’t tell the time.

I got it a few weeks ago, the night after we hit that pawn shop. The score was more than we were expecting, and my old man was in a celebrating mood, so he invited Big Jim back to the garage and said anyone who wanted a new piece could get one.

I came up with the idea while I waited for Johnny to finish with his. Just thought it was a cool thing to think about—that time doesn’t really exist. To not live your life by it.

After combing my hair back the way I like it, I slip into my room to get dressed before heading for the kitchen. I know what I’ll find waiting for me before I even walk in.

Sitting on the table in front of my usual spot is a huge stack of pancakes with a collection of candles sticking out of the top.

My mother whirls around at the sound of my incoming steps. “There’s my birthday boy.” She beams.

She’s always been big on birthdays. Ever since I was a little kid, she’s made it a whole thing. No matter what else was going on, she found a way to make the moments special. To make it feel like we’re a happy family. If only on those few days a year.

“Levi,” she hollers. “It’s time to sing.”

I don’t know when she started this tradition. I can’t think of a time when we didn’t do it. Every year, even if it’s her own birthday, she makes pancakes, covers them with candles, and we sing “Happy Birthday.”

I slide into my seat, and she comes over, standing behind me, then drops a kiss onto my head and says, “Happy birthday, honey.”

“Thanks, Ma,” I say, looking up at her.

My father walks in and tips his head up at me. “Happy birthday, boy.”

I nod back in response. “Thanks.”

Reaching into the pocket of her robe, my mother produces a lighter and begins lighting the candles. She claps once she’s done and says, “You ready for your song?”

I nod, and she begins to sing, her light voice filling the room.

My father leans against the counter, his eyes on my mother. He never sings along, but he shows up every year.

The song finishes, and she places her hands on my shoulders. “Make a wish,” she whispers.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wished for the same thing—to get out of this town, to leave this life. But this year, Sam pops into my mind and something becomes clear.