My Peace (Beautifully Broken 5)

I’m with Mila and Zuzu now. That’s what matters.

We eat, the cold fried chicken and the biscuits and the cheese. I feed Zuzu pieces of grapes and Mila licks her fingers.

“This is perfect,” she says happily.

“Are you doing ok? No pain?” I ask her. She shakes her head.

“No pain, no blood. Stop worrying.”

“As if.”

She shakes her head, and I look at our daughter, who is already yawning.

“Chelsea took her to the zoo,” Mila explains. “She’s worn out.”

“I’ll get her ready for bed,” I tell her. “Seven o’clock isn’t too early, is it?”

“Not for such a long day,” she answers. “Thank you.”

I read Zuzu her favorite book twice, then turn on her lamp. I tuck her favorite stuffed tiger in next to her and kiss her forehead.

Then I head back to Mila.

“I’m going to take a shower, then join you,” I tell her.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I let the hot water pour down on me, and put most of the weight on my good leg. The steam builds up and drains most of my tension, and by the time I towel off, I feel much better.

To be on the safe side, I pop a couple more muscle relaxers before I join my wife in bed.

She welcomes me with open arms, and I mold my body to hers, because this is where I belong.

14

Chapter Thirteen

My father flies into town two days later and meets me after work at the Pub.

“What exactly did he say?” he asks me seriously. His hands twist together, because if anyone hates Leroy Ellison more than I do, it’s my father.

“He said it should be me in prison, and that he wanted to tell me something mom said.”

“He doesn’t know shit,” my father swears, and picks up his whiskey glass. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

“I know,” I tell him, and I gulp my drink too. “I just wonder… I mean, did she say anything?”

“If she did, it wasn’t anything we didn’t already know. Your mother always communicated her feelings. She even left those letters for you in case anything ever happened to her. She was always prepared, always spoke her mind. Trust me.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I admit, and I drain my glass. My father narrows his eyes.

“I haven’t seen you drink like this in a long time. You ok?”

I signal the bartender for another. “Just a lot of stress right now. I’m fine. No reason to worry.”

“Ok,” he says hesitantly, and for a minute, I see the old concern in his eyes, the concern he used to have back when I was using drugs and disappearing into a bottle of Jack.

“I’m fine,” I reassure him. “I’ve got a handle on things. There’s just a lot right now.”