The Mind (The Reluctant Romantics #1.5) (18 page)

I sit, hanging on every word, trying to burn lines from some of the poems into my memory. I cry, and when I feel utterly broken, I cram the letters back inside and gather everything into my arms. I quickly make my way through the living room and out the door to the side of the house to throw this part of my past away.

It has been over for three years, but still, even after everything, I can’t seem to let him go. In order to let go of something you love, you have to forget it, and I will never be able to forget Nicolas.

****

After I threw those boxes away yesterday, I went back inside and cleaned momma’s house. One of the ladies she used to work with is supposed to come visit her today, and momma has always been one of those southern women who apologize for her house being a mess even though she just mopped and waxed the floors. That’s a habit I’ve somehow picked up, almost like that’s how you greet someone when they visit your home: ‘Thanks for coming by, please excuse the mess’, you say as you guide them through your sparkling foyer.

I’ve been on autopilot for the past twenty minutes of the drive and am a little shocked when my tire bumps over the uneven pavement at the end of her driveway. I put the car into park, cut the engine, and take a breath as I stare at the house I was raised in. It’s all so different now. There used to be this feeling of comfort that washed over me when I pulled into this driveway, but now, all I feel is dread. The very second I step out of my car, the humid air surrounds me, slicking my skin with moisture.

When I get to the door, I pause. This is always the worst part of the day, standing in front of this door, terrified to walk inside. My stomach knots, my heart sits in the back of my throat, and I exhale as I turn the knob. No lights are on in the house, but the sun filters in through the windows.

“Momma?”

It's silent with the exception of the tick-tock of the grandfather clock down the hallway and the birds chirping outside the window. I don’t like silence. My panicked pulse violently hammers through my ears. “Momma…” I slowly round the corner to the living room, and my heart plummets to the pit of my stomach.
She’s just asleep.

Swallowing, I take cautious steps toward the couch, fighting back the watery pain building in my eyes. My chest tightens as I stare down at her. I’m not ready to let her go. Even though I’m an adult, I need her more than I need anything else in my life.

“Momma,” I whisper, leaning over her as I skim my finger over her arm. It’s still warm, but she doesn’t move. Her chest doesn’t rise, and it’s now that I’m this close that I notice her eyes aren’t completely shut. I want to scream, but I can’t find the strength. Weakness falls over me. My knees buckle, and I crumple to the floor next to her, sobbing, my hand still resting on her arm.
Wake up, Peyton. Wake the fuck up. Make this stop!
But you can’t wake up from life. I lay my head on her chest and listen. The absence of her heartbeat is the worst silence I’ve ever experienced. Balling her shirt in my fist, I weep. “Please,” I whisper. “I can’t…”

But no pleading will ever change this.

There is an absence that overwhelms you when you lose your mother, and it’s one I can’t explain. It’s emptiness at its greatest, a chasm ripping through the core of your soul. Your mother is the one person who has been with you throughout your life. Her voice is the first you hear before the world even knows who you are, her heartbeat the song of comfort your life forms to, and when you lose the person who gave you life, part of you dies along with them.