Once in my truck, I drive away from the field, taking us home, all while trying to ignore the overwhelming, burning desire to pick up my phone and call her just to hear her voice one more time.
I get Max’s dinner together for him, not worrying about myself because, as I’ve said, I’ve barely eaten this week. We do bath time and I get him cozy in pajamas.
“Max, can you pick out a book to read before bedtime?” I ask, taking a seat on his floor.
He makes his way over to his little bookshelf, picking a big colorful book about insects before dropping to the carpeted ground. He settles himself between my legs, his head resting back on my stomach.
Though most of the day, I feel like I’ll never be okay again, I know I will be. I’ll have to be for him and that gives me a spark of hope.
“Bug,” he says, pointing to a cartoon caterpillar on the pages.
“Yeah, that is a bug. Do you know who else is a bug?” I ask him, tickling his side. “You’re a bug!”
He giggles, folding himself over my hand that’s tickling his ribs and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all week. My smile is the most genuine one I’ve worn in that same amount of time.
Max stands to his feet, turning to face me, meeting me eye to eye. His little hands find my face, running over my cheeks, sliding along my scruff.
He outlines my eyes with a single finger, and I close them so he can. “Dadda, sad,” he says, and my eyes shoot open at that.
His face is so concerned, far more concerned than any seventeen-month-old should be.
But I’m also not going to lie to him.
“Yeah,” I exhale. “Daddy is sad, but it’s okay to be sad.” Wrapping my hand around his back, I help him keep his feet so he can look at me. “It just means we love someone so much that we miss them. That’s a good thing.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, not really understanding everything I’m saying.
“We’ve got each other, Max. You and me.” I pull him into my chest, holding him. “Do you know how much I love you?”
“Yeah,” he says again and this time I can’t help but chuckle.
“Do you know how much Miller loves you? I know she’s missing you as much as we’re missing her. You’re so loved, Bug, by so many people. I don’t want you to forget that.”
He melts into my shoulder, curling himself close to my body, his cue that it’s time for bed.
Standing, I get him in his crib, turning on the sound machine that sits on a small table next to his crib. Max follows me with his sleepy eyes.
He points to the framed photo that lives next to his crib. “Mama.”
I swear the word takes the air right out of my lungs the way it has every day this week.
“That’s uh . . .” I swallow hard. “That’s Miller.”
“Mama!”
“Yeah,” I exhale in defeat, not saying anything else because truly, I don’t want to correct him.
I lean over his crib to kiss his head. “I love you, Max.”
After making sure the baby monitor is on, I turn the lights off and close the door behind me, heading straight for the fridge for a beer.
A Corona specifically, because that’s all I have stocked, which feels like a big fuck you from the universe.
Taking a seat on the couch, I pop the top and take a swig, unable to block out the visual of the way Miller looked with her lips around that Corona the first day I saw her in the elevator.
God, I’m a fucking mess. How do people do this?
Fishing out my phone, I scroll, eager for an iota of information on the girl I’m desperately in love with.
The same girl who is off chasing bigger dreams.
Every night when Max goes to bed, I’m nose deep in my phone, typing in her name, and whenever those jade green eyes and dark brunette hair come into view, my stomach dips, wishing I could reach through the screen and touch her.
She’s been interviewed at least once a day through different blogs. Violet truly kept her promise of filling her schedule when she returned to work. I’m annoyed for her. This is the pressure that set her off in the first place, but I know Miller, I know she can live up to the expectations if she chooses to, and judging by these interviews, she’s doing exactly that.
Then there’s the part of me that’s thankful Violet has thrown her back into the thick of it because it’s the reason I have a bit of her. I can read what she said that day, and yes, this hopeless, longing side to me is trying to read between the lines, searching for a hidden meaning. I’m trying to find the words “Miller Montgomery is moving to Chicago” somewhere in an article that’s titled, “Miller Montgomery—Back to Business.”