And so is the sun.
“Mama,” Aurora whimpers, ripping the air right from my fuckin’ lungs.
My knees hit the ground a second later, and when my daughter’s first tear falls, I break right along with her.
And this time? I don’t think I’ll ever get back up.
Chapter Fifty
The Downpour Knew Her Name
It’s been a week.
A full fuckin’ week since she walked away from me, suitcase in hand, tears down her face, and my daughter between us—blinking up at the two people who were supposed to make her feel safe.
Now, I sit on the back porch, boots planted on the creaking wood, the monitor balanced beside me like some kind of leash Ican’t let go of. Aurora’s out for the night after a long day with my sisters and Mom, while I finished up maintenance on the east irrigation line and pretended I was fine.
I'm not.
I’m not fuckin’ fine.
Don’t think I ever will be again.
My beard’s grown wild. My clothes haven’t matched in days. I haven't shaved, haven’t eaten a full meal that didn’t involve one of her protein bars or something left over from Rory’s tray. I look like hell and feel worse.
The sky’s gone dark, swollen clouds pushing low, heavy with rain. A storm’s coming. I can feel it in my bones—every old break and scar aching under the pressure of it.
And still, none of that hurts half as much as missing her.
I haven't heard a word. Not a call. Not a text. Not even a “go to hell.”
Just silence.
I’ve called her. Left messages. A dozen voicemails where I start to say something and end up muttering nothing. I’ve sat on this porch every night since, watching the horizon like she might come back on foot, dust in her wake, suitcase in one hand and forgiveness in the other.
But she hasn’t.
And I don’t blame her.
Because I read the letter.
And fuck me, but God,fuck Marleefor writing it.
That woman always did know how to twist the knife and make it look like love. That damn thing was wrapped in guilt and tied in ribbons of nostalgia. It was her voice, sweet and aching, but I know better now. Every word was soaked in manipulation.
She made herself the martyr. Made me the boy who could’ve been enough if only he’d been bigger, richer, better. She tried to rewrite history like I hadn’t sent her every paycheck while sheplayed house with a man who raised his hand to her and let Aurora suffer in silence.
But no, Marlee always wanted tragedy. It made her feel important.
And now Georgia’s gone because of her.
Because of that letter.
Because of the bullshit Marlee wrote from the grave, where she gets to play the victim one more time and leave me to clean up the wreckage.
Worst part was the way she talked about her own flesh and blood. Not once did she say Aurora’s name or speak about her like she was more than a burden or pawn.
After the first time I read it, I threw up in the sink.
