Page 84 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

Dad doesn’t disappoint. “This mean you’re staying?”

“Until the season starts again, yeah.”

“How long is that?”

“I’ll need to leave by the end of September.”

Dad rolls his lips, as though he’s thinking. As though this is a negotiation. It’s not.

Mom gives me a cheeky grin as we both wait for Dad.

“I can make that work.”

I don’t bother telling him it wouldn’t matter either way. The season begins again in October.

I will be back in Vancouver no later than September thirtieth.

“Glad to hear it, Pop.” I don’t give Mom’s mouthed ‘thank you’ more than a single chin dip. “So, now that you got me, what are you planning to do with me?”

7

THE TASTE OF FAILURE

APRIL 2023 – PRESENT DAY

Istep out of the shower at quarter after five, having finished a half hour work out. My four-thirty alarm has been routine for around the last nine-ish months. Even on weekends. There’s a possibility it’s contributing to the dark circles under my eyes, but the structure of my morning routine keeps me grounded in a way that nothing else does.

Dad says it’s about motivation. He says it’s important to take the first steps to a good and healthy start to each day. He tells me he’s proud of me, and I can see he means it. He thinks I’m strong.

I think I’m just clinging to the rigorousness of what I know so that I don’t do something terrible like spiral into a grief I won’t be able to swim my way out of.

I stare at myself in the mirror, my towel tucked between my breasts to stay in place. I want to cry, but I don’t. I’m not even sure why, anymore.

It’s more than simply grieving. More than missing Tate.

I feel so alone, but there’s no one I want. No one I can imagine myself with.

I’m not the girl I once was, even though in my mind, at thirty-one, I still feel so young. Like my life is just starting even if I’ve already lived through the devastation of an ending.

A sharp laugh spills out before I can bite it back. I nab my bottle of hyaluronic acid and smear it onto my face. Next is the rose hip seed oil…

Who am I kidding? I’m not young anymore.

“Miss Mabel, it’s wakey, wakey time.” There’s no need to turn on the light. The child sleeps with enough nightlights in her room to ignite the firmament. Not that such a thing exists despite what doomscrolling TikTok tells me. Some rabbit holes are better left untravelled.

I flick the light on in her fish tank, moving through the colors until I land on blue. Pink and yellow might be her favorite colors normally, but when it comes to her glow fish, blue wins hands down.

I’d firmly refused having fish in the beginning. Cleaning the tank was a task I was not willing to oversee. Tate had promised I’d never have to.

I’ve since learned. I dislike it as much as I thought I would.

“Miss Mabel,” I sing-song as I pull open her dresser. “If you don’t get your booty up and out of that bed, I’m going to have to pick your outfit myself.”

“No.” A peek shows she didn’t even bother to open her eyes.

“I’m thinking black pants and a black shirt.”

Another peek risks both eyes glaring at me. She sits up in her bed, one side of her hair looking like something has nested in it.