Page 111 of Made for Mayhem

I went still, the lazy circles I’d been tracing on her skin freezing mid-stroke. Sure, I’d known Daisy wasn’t here those last months before Violet passed, but this—this was a gut punch.

“Jesus, Daisy.” I cupped her jaw, tilting her face up. “Before I realized it was you, I thought the worst. That you knew and stayed away anyway.”

Her eyes flashed, hurt and understanding all at once. “You know I would’ve been here. If I’d known, I would’ve dropped everything. I would’ve held her hand through the headaches, learned how to make those stupid green smoothies she loved that tasted like grass, hugged Junie when she asked why Mommy wouldn’t wake up.”

“I know that,” I said, voice rough. “I know you. And Daisy, you got here as soon as you could. That you’ve been dealing with this on your own and still showing up for Junie every day… I’m in awe.”

She shook her head. “Violet’s first letter said she didn’t want me to watch her die. Called it her ‘last selfish act’—protecting me from the countdown.”

I got that reflex. I was an older sibling too, and I fought like hell my whole life to protect Emmy from the same emotional neglect I felt at the hands of our parents. But this was different. This hurt her.

“She was wrong.” Tears slid down Daisy’s face, and I wiped them away with my thumb. “But I get why. And that makes me furious. I’m grateful for the months I didn’t lie awake picturing her last breath… and I hate her for stealing the choice. I missed everything.”

“Grief’s not a straight line,” I said, echoing the counselor I’d sat with every Thursday for weeks before Violet died. “It’s a damn scribble. You can love her, miss her, and want to scream at her all at once.”

She hiccuped. “Well, that was wise. You’re not just a dumb jock, huh?”

“I hope not after those grief counseling classes I took, so I’d know what to say when Junie asked why her mom’s in the ground but the sun still rises.” I kissed her again, hoping she felt that I understood. “Anger’s part of it. The situation sucks. Violet took something huge from you, even if she wrapped it in love. But that doesn’t make missing her any easier.”

Daisy’s fingers curled into my chest. “I keep thinking—if I’d known, maybe I could’ve done something. Or, at least, helped Junie more.”

“You’re helping her now,” I said. “You dance, and smile, and cry, and tell stories, and keep on living even when it feels impossible, showing Junie she can too. That’s what matters.”

She looked up, eyes softer. “Grief counseling, huh? Is that like sitting in a circle with strangers for eight weeks?”

“Every Thursday. We learned about grief bursts and memory boxes. Junie’s got hers under the bed. We pressed some wildflowers last week and added them.”

Daisy’s smile wobbled. “You’re a good man, Ty Hudson.”

“I’m a man stupid in love with that kid,” I said. I almost slipped and you in there, but was terrified that would scare Daisy off even more than implying I wanted her to have my kids someday.

So instead, I said, “I’m not going anywhere. Not when the nights are good, and not when the grief rips you open all at once. We’ll scribble through it together.”

She pressed her face into my neck, arms tight. “Okay.”

I held her until her breathing evened, until the moon slid lower and the room went dark. Then I whispered, “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

25

The sun had already burned off the morning chill by the time Junie and I spread the picnic blanket under a tree in Violet’s front yard. Mid-July in Linwood meant wildflowers everywhere—columbine, paintbrush, lupine—and the air smelled like warm grass and river water and the strawberry jam I’d slathered on Junie’s sandwich.

Rowdy eased down beside the blanket with a sigh, settling into the shade, while Piggie Smalls snorted through the grass nearby.

Junie sat cross-legged, purple plate balanced on her knees, inspecting her sandwich. “Did you know the average strawberry has two hundred seeds?” she asked. “Ty has this seed catalog in the store I was reading a few days ago.”

I grinned and handed her a lemonade with a curly straw. “That’s crazy. Do you think we could grow a whole patch from a single strawberry?”

Junie nodded, straw already in her mouth. “Maybe if we did it right.”

We ate in comfortable quiet; the mountains providing the perfect soundtrack for this lazy day. Up close, the siding on Violet’s house still looked like a before picture: peeling paint, a few boards warped from decades of sun and snow. But from the blanket it looked almost cheerful, the new porch rail gleaming white against the old farmhouse bones.

Ty had left after breakfast for the rink, ready for an off-season practice with the Mayhem and an investor’s meeting to discuss the expansion project. He’d kissed Junie’s forehead, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “Have a good day, girls.”

Today, though, today was about me and Junie.

I pulled a fistful of clover and dandelions from the grass. “Want to learn something useless and pretty?”

Junie’s eyes lit up behind her black glasses. “I like learning.”