Bonus Kisses - Freya Barker Page 0,27

for weeks, and I’m more than a little apprehensive about tackling it with my mother, with whom I’ve barely exchanged a civilized word in a long time. However, if there is any common ground between us, it would be our love for Nicky and our grief at her loss. Maybe doing this together will remind us of that.

We silently walk up the stairs to the master bedroom, where Mom drops the garbage bags on the bed and immediately heads for the walk-in closet.

“She always dressed well,” Mom mumbles, as she pulls the first handful of hangers off the rail.

I bite my lip, trying hard not to hear her remark as veiled criticism. Reminding myself I may not be able to control what comes out of her mouth, but I can control my response to it.

“She does…did,” I agree, and it’s clear from the surprise on Mom’s face she didn’t expect that.

My acquiescence seems to have taken the wind from her sails because the next ten minutes we work almost in silence, emptying out the closet and piling everything on the bed.

“Before we start sorting things for garbage or Goodwill, we should probably see if there’s anything we want to keep,” Mom points out. “Maybe a few things for Sofie.”

I nod and immediately reach for a pretty, colorful, silk scarf. “She might like this. They’re her colors.”

In turn Mom pulls out a sequined cocktail dress I’ve never seen before. “This one too. Sofie loved it when Nicky wore it two years ago for our fortieth wedding anniversary.”

“It’s pretty,” I manage, my voice laced with regret.

I missed their anniversary, like I missed a lot of significant family events over the years. My sister’s wedding, the births of my niece and nephew, Christmases, birthdays, I wasn’t here for any of them. It would be easy to put that burden on my mother’s shoulders, but it doesn’t belong there. It belongs with me.

The realization has me sink on the edge of the bed, my knees suddenly weak. In the end, it doesn’t matter who or what caused the breach; I’m the one who ran to the other side of the world and stayed there. I’m the one who created a divide that was impossible for anyone to cross. Except me.

God, all these years I’ve felt so justified in my choices, so righteous in my self-imposed martyrdom, I never considered I was the one preventing any chance of healing. Me.

I drop my head between my knees, fighting off the sudden wave of nausea.

“Natasha?” Concern is evident in my mother’s voice. “Are you okay? Do you need a break?”

I shake my head, unable to speak, and keeping my eyes on the floor between my feet. I hear Mom move, then I hear the faucet turn on and off in the adjoining bathroom. Next thing I know, the heavy dreadlocks are lifted from my neck and something cold and damp is pressed against my skin.

I barely recall the last time my mother touched me with care. I reach back and cover her hand on my neck as my eyes burn.

“In through the nose and out through the mouth.” Doing as she softly instructs, I manage to battle back both tears and nausea, finally lifting my head. “Better?” she asks, and I give her a small smile in response. She flashes a hint of one back before disappearing into the bathroom to discard the wet washcloth.

As if nothing happened, we return focus to the task of sorting through the piles of clothes, but it feels like the air is lighter.

With everything on the bed packed in the dozen or so bags lining the wall, Mom disappears back into the closet, coming out with a garment bag. Her turn to sink down on the edge of the mattress, the bag crushed in her arms.

“It’s her wedding dress.”

I sit down beside her, my eyes automatically drawn to the large frame hanging over the dresser. Even though I wasn’t there for the event, I’ve seen enough pictures to know my sister was gorgeous on her wedding day. Still, none of them showed her radiance like the enlarged image on the wall, dancing by herself in the small orchard out back, her long skirt twirling around her legs.

“She was so beautiful,” I whisper. “Sofie will look just like her when she’s older.”

“I know.”

“We should save the dress for her.”

“Yes, but that’s not all that’s in this bag,” Mom says, standing up and laying the garment bag on the bed, pulling down the