single muscle in his body turned to jelly.” A knot forms in my throat, and I do my best to push it down. “He says if he hadn’t been holding on to the door frame, he would’ve fallen to his knees, right then and there. He thought I was an angel, this little three-year-old girl with pigtails and brown eyes so light, he swore he could walk right through them and straight into heaven.”
Leo’s single, quiet laugh is almost painful.
“Mom told him she had a job interview and that she had no one to watch me and that she’d come back in a couple of days. She left me right here, on this porch, with a backpack half-filled with clothes and diapers.”
He sighs. “When my darkness returned,” he mumbles.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Did she come back?”
“No,” I say, leaning back on my arms. “Papa waited a few days. He says—” I laugh this time, out loud. “He says those few days were the hardest of his life. He didn’t know me—not really—and he had no idea how to take care of a child, especially a girl. My grandma did all that stuff for my dad. One day, he found himself in the baby aisle at the grocery store, trying to figure out what size diapers to buy when Tammy appeared. His other angel—he calls her. She had Holden’s hand in hers like mine was in Papa’s, and… Tammy says that she’d never seen him so lost, so scared, not even after his wife passed…” I rub at my eyes, at the sudden tears welling. “Tammy once told me that there was never a choice when it came to looking after me. There was right, and there was wrong. And I’d been wronged enough to last a lifetime…” I trail off, my voice hoarse from the number of words spoken and the weight those words carry. “See?” I say, attempting a smile as I look up at Leo. “Scandalous.”
“It’s not scandalous, Mia,” he breathes out. “It’s fucking heartbreaking.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Leo
I’m almost finished hand-sanding the last of the decking boards when John returns just after 10 p.m. I wanted to complete it before I went home tomorrow so that when I got back next week, I could focus on the railings.
The delicate, complicated, Mia-railings.
I only had one sanding block, and by the time the boards were laid, the hardware store was closed. I told Mia she didn’t have to stay outside with me, but she insisted. Even though we didn’t talk much, I have to admit it’s nice having her here. Having her close. It’s far better than the whole ignoring thing we tried and failed to do.
When John gets out of his friend’s truck and steps on the porch, I put a finger to my lips and point to the porch swing where Mia is sprawled, fast asleep. She looks so at peace; I didn’t have the heart to wake her.
John halts on the first step, his smile instant as he looks over at her, his head tilting in that way adoring parents look at their children. “You try waking her?” His voice is deep, loud, and not on purpose. That’s just the way he speaks no matter what he’s saying.
I shake my head.
“She a deep sleeper,” he says, his boots stomping up the steps. “See?”
I look over at Mia, and sure enough, she hasn’t stirred.
With his hand on the doorknob, he asks, “Why are you still working?”
“I wanted to finish up this part before I leave tomorrow.”
He nods once, then trails his eyes toward Mia. “It’s been a long time since she’s done this.”
“Fallen asleep on the porch?” I ask.
His gaze lowers, and he nods again. “When she was little, and I was working, Tammy—Holden’s mom—would watch them. Sometimes here, sometimes at their house. Some days, Baba and Holden played too much, and when they got tired, Holden would sleep in your room, and she’d sleep there…”
I glance at Mia, picturing a smaller, younger version of her curled up like she is now.
“I think…” John says, turning the knob, “I think she was afraid I wouldn’t come back for her.”
Sometimes there’s a single line in a book, or a sentence, or an entire paragraph that gives you pause, makes you think, makes you open that page over and over just so you see the same few words again and again. Relive them. Rethink them. These are the pages that connect to the part of the spine that