Page 8 of Range
“Yes,” she replied, but I could still hear the regret in her tone.
“Is he fine, at least?”
Chuckling, she groaned. “I don’t know. He will be here in the next thirty minutes. But, even if he is–”
“Don’t do the help.” I laughed, reciting the pact we’d made since returning to Clarke.
It only complicated the relationship, working and romantic.
“Don’t do the help,” she recited.
I inhaled deeply and tossed my legs on the side of the bed.
“You sound like you were still sleeping. It’s near ten.”
“Shame on me, Ro. I have been in this man’s bed as if life doesn’t exist outside of it. I’m getting up now. I woke up right before you called.”
“You can rest sometimes, Range.”
“I know. Just not here and not on a Monday. It’s the start of the week. The tone setter. The foundation. And, right now, it’s looking like I’m going to be dragging my feet through this one.”
I tiptoed through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where I rested my butt on the toilet. My bladder released all it had been storing. My spine curled as it did so, overly satisfied with the relief it supplied.
“Sundays are rest days for me,” Roaman informed me as if our entire family wasn’t aware of her strict list of boundaries surrounding her sacred day.
“They’re sacred.”
“They are.”
I cleaned myself and stood, still stretching and getting rid of the stiffness in my joints.
“I’m going to get myself together, Ro. I’ll talk to you later, baby.”
“Talk to you later. I love you.”
“In every lifetime, babes. Promise to wait for me.”
“Promise to find me.”
I ended the call with an overflowing heart. She had a special way of filling cups to the brim or forcing their overflow.
Effortlessly.
Without many words.
Without much fight.
She had that much love to give. Just like an older sibling. Just like the oldest girl.
Roaman wasn’t a mother but she mothered us all at some level. Her nurturing spirit wouldn’t allow her to ignore it.
I stepped out of the toilet room in pursuit of the sink. My feet halted at the sight of white roses.
On the countertop. Inside the sink. Cream balloons clung to a white bag that was lined in black with a single word in the middle. A folded note was taped to the mirror, slightly swaying from the AC pushing through the vent above it.
I tugged at the paper, careful not to tear it. Kason’s handwriting greeted me as I unfolded it. A tightness passed through my midsection, stopping at my pussy where I throbbed uncontrollably.
Range,
