by J. L. Rizzo
“And she can play the piano quite well.”
Yes.
My mom looks at the picture a few extra moments, memorizing it. “Do you want to keep this picture, Crew?” she smiles again.
I nod emphatically. Yes!
She laughs. “Well, ok then. Take good care of her.”
She hands me the photo, and I press it to my chest before I hide it away.
Showing Summer the picture, I wait for her reaction, my heartbeat multiplying as each second passes.
Her eyes grow large with recognition. “Wait. This is me.”
I simply nod. Yes.
She looks closely at the photo. “This was in Germany.” Her brow furrows when she looks back to me. “I thought you said you never saw me play before.”
My smile reaches through every nerve in my body, singing it to life.
“My mother saw you,” I tell her. “She took the picture.”
“Ah,” Summer smiles. “And why is it included in a photo book that you made?”
With my heart in my throat, I reach over and turn the picture over.
Summer reads the words on the back, words that I wrote when I was 9 years old and life was still hopeful.
She looks back to me, the tears filling her eyes. “You wrote this?”
I nod. Yes.
“When you were 9?” Her bottom lip stammers.
I nod again. Yes.
“Got a little ahead of yourself there, didn’t you?” she jokes with a shaking voice, the tears streaming down her face.
I shrug then smile so brightly at her that my soul lights up the evening sky.
“All those years you were away from me, since you were a tiny girl with pink curly pigtails, something has always been clear for me…something I never doubted deep in my soul.” Looking at her with a mischievous gleam in my eye, she picks up on it immediately.
“What? That I’m your soulmate?” she chuckles, shrugging one shoulder, laughing at my boyish innocence.
“No, Summer.” Leaning in closer, I’m washed with her scent — coconut and jasmine and sunshine. It gives me the courage to say what I need to say. “That I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. I’ve always belonged to you.”
Pulling back, I see the shock in her eyes, and I feel ten feet tall that I’m able to surprise her.
“So then, I guess it’s you and me in the end?” Her warm brown eyes are flooding with tears.
I nod my head. Yes.
She’s on me before I know it, wrapping her arms around my neck, kissing me with all the passion in her being, loving me like I’ve loved her my whole life.
Because of the words on the back of a picture:
Crew + Summer Evans. Until then….
Also by J.L. Rizzo
Hidden, me
Find J. L. Rizzo
www.jlrizzo.com
Here’s a sneak peak to Hidden, Me:
chapter one
4 years from now
Lacey
The pain cuts deep. My hand is throbbing. My head is throbbing. Everything hurts. How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?
I have a newfound respect for people who can slap others and not bat an eyelash. Maybe they don’t do it as hard as I just did. Maybe they just don’t show the pain. But I’m hurting. My hand hurts, my wrist hurts, my skin hurts, my conscience hurts. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
I can’t bring myself to really look at him. His eyes slay me every time. And I can’t handle that right now. I just need to go.
Opening the door, I bolt out and head straight for the elevator around the corner, grateful he can’t see me from his door, if he even bothers. I feel the angry tears welling up. I’ve got to get away from him before they confess it all. I slide into the elevator and keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the floor this hard before. I want to look up. God, do I want to look up and see if he’s even looking. But I don’t, never wanting to give him the satisfaction, in the event he gives a shit.
“I don’t love you. I’m sorry.”
It’s all I hear as I descend, over and over again. Four years, shot to hell. As if the “I’m sorry” is supposed to make up for it all.
Moron.
Yes, this finally proves it. I’m a fucking moron.
About the Author
J. L. Rizzo studied creative writing in college and graduate school, then became a teacher of English literature and writing. While teaching, she studied the science of anatomy and movement, learning from top experts in the field. J. L. Rizzo is a writer, movement specialist, and an entrepreneur.
She currently lives in Orange County, California with her husband and three children. She continues to write while teaching bodywork and spending time with her family and friends.
Connect with J. L. Rizzo at www.jlrizzo.com
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