Page 61 of Be My Summer

I had located my mother and she was playing the perfect stepmother to the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life and have pretty brown babies with. To pile onto that pile of shit, my father, the one person who understood my head when it came to all of that, died in our home. I’d found him.

Life is so shitty right now.

But, still, Saul played his heart out. Note after note. He played.

So well.

So elegantly.

So beautifully.

So tragically.

I squeezed my lids tighter and dug my body deeper into my mattress. Sleep came easy knowing someone who loved me was still on this side of earth and was still choosing me even when I couldn’t choose myself.

I stared at the wreckage on the back porch. For the first time in two weeks, I was able to clean my body, shampoo my hair, put on something other than a big shirt, and cook something from the fridge.

My God.

I braced myself with a deep breath before diving into cleaning. The space was the closest to my safehaven at the moment. I was ready to escape my reality in the pages of a new novel. The one I was reading before my father’s death had been shelved. It was too painful to continue. I’d revisit it when I was better.

Maybe.

I started with the pillows, pushing them all to the side. Next, I removed the linens. I swept the entire porch after. Then, I rearranged every piece of furniture and put it all in places that better served my vision. I recovered the cushions with fresh linen and replaced the pillows.

I rummaged through my bedroom to find my favorite spray. The one that quieted the chaos. The one that reminded me of better times. The one that put my worries to rest. The one I sprayed on my sheets faithfully when struggling with the burdens of a motherless child. The one that made me feel better. Always.

There.

Autumn’s Eve was a nickname my father gave me as a kid. It was a mouthful. As his sickness progressed, he decided to stick with his favorite, Sums. It was short, sweet, and straight to the point.

I cradled the glass bottle in my hand, remembering when my father and I attended the class for his birthday two years ago. He’d made my fragrance and I’d made his.

Summer Nights was the name of his linen spray and he used it every summer night before bed. His bottle was empty by the third week of summer this year. My intention was to revisit the hobby shop and remake it, but I never got around to it.

Maybe next week. I promised.

I spritzed the linen, leaving a healthy layer of spray on the sheet as I started the ceiling fan. It was nippy out. November was in full swing and it had brought about a chill. I piled extra blankets on top of the cushion and got comfortable underneath the many layers.

My fingers split the new novel, turning to the first page. While my head was grieving the time it had lost with words, my heart wasn’t in the same place. I couldn’t make out the first sentence. The words meshed with the paper. I swallowed back my tears.

The pain was too fresh.

The world was too heavy for me to leave behind.

I had to stay here. In this moment. In this hurt. In this pain.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

A fist against the wooden structure my father had created for my enjoyment startled me. I lifted the top of my body, searching in the darkness for the person responsible for the disruption. Though I couldn’t see him, I could feel him.

“Miss Summer,” Saul called out, appearing from thin air.

“Saul–”