More tears gathered in my eyes, threatening to spill with every blink.
Sniffling sounds revealed Caroline was fighting a similar fight.
With a last squeeze of my hand, Mike gingerly propped himself a little higher up against his crowdsourced pillow fort and patted his shoulder. Caroline perched on his other side and leaned her head where he had patted, taking care not to disturb his ribs.
“Where did you go over?” she asked quietly. “Do you remember?”
“That bend after Willis Road. Not the same corner as Mum.”
I sucked in a breath. I hadn’t realized it was the same fucking road.
“Oh, Mike?—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he soothed his sister, running a hand over her pink hair. “I’m okay. Everything is okay, Shrimpy. I’m fine. I’m here. Some things are outside of our control, aye? But I’m fine.”
“None of us are ever allowed to drive that road ever again.”
“I know.”
We sat with him, drinking tea and talking about nothing. Mike absorbed our grief like a sponge. I had no idea how he was managing this, or why. It was just his way, I had come to realize. Mike didn’t like to see people he cared about upset, and his determination to reassure us made it even more upsetting that we weren’t the ones doing that for him.
Mike, beneath all his wisecracks and his posturing, was a sweet soul who would do anything for the people in his life. He was hardwired to care, to protect, to soothe the people around him.
He was the most amazing man I’d ever known. No wonder I loved him.
We sat with him for another hour. Eventually he took more meds and spooned up some of the soup Dean made for him. After that, he fell asleep. The weight of everything unsaid was heavy on my mind, but now wasn’t the time.
Caroline and Dean went back to the café. I hoped Dean was going to bed himself, because he looked like a zombie, his face pallid and eyes bleary. From the mulish look on Caroline’s face, she was going to insist that both her dad and Dean get some much-needed sleep.
While Mike slept, I tidied around the house, then picked a bunch of lemons off the tree and sliced them so he would have them for his cups of tea.
I went out to see Mini M and Baz, and while I was out there, I spent some time writing a text to my mom.
I chose my words carefully, but I told her firmly that I wanted to leave New York and move to New Zealand. I planned to keep doing my fashion influencing and maybe pick up some other marketing stuff too. I was happy here. I would not be happy at Brown.
The messages showed as delivered within seconds, which was surprising, as it was dinner time there, and Mom always put her phone on Do Not Disturb when she was hosting parties. It hit me abruptly, like a bolt of lightning from the sky, that this meant she had me set me up as a priority contact.
For her to consider a message from me important enough to interrupt one of her dinners told me more than the words she would never use ever could. My mom loved me. In her own way. She just didn’t understand me.
Her reply confirmed it.
Mom
If you’re sure that’s what you want, Lyssa, fine. I’ll sell the Manhattan apartment. But if you decide you want to purchase an apartment in Woodville, let me know. Charles and I will help. Send me pictures of Milford Sound if you travel down to the South Island of New Zealand. Rudyard Kipling went there in the 1890s and declared it the Eighth Wonder of the World. I would like a picture. Speak soon. Emily.
Smiling, I lay out in the grass with Mini M and lost track of time watching Mike’s chickens roam through the grass.
I didn’t scroll any feeds or check my notifications. They’d wait, and Mati would let me know if anything was important.
Mike woke later in the afternoon and called me—literally called my phone.
“Where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Outside where?”
“Outside with Mini M.”
