𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

76. rip Bob Marley.

S E V E N T Y - S I X
rip Bob Marely.

"I'm sorry, sweetie, but at Kitty Hawk, we feel you have the strength to hear all the news, including bad news."

That's really not a good way to start a conversation. Couldn't we have eased into it? Maybe a 'how's your day,' or 'it's a bit humid today, isn't it?' Anything but straight up 'I'm going to tell you some shitty news.'

The kind woman is very short and round, curly hair frames her face, her green eyes match the vomit-inducing uniform. Even her words have a kind tone to them; they're gentle and cautious.

Apparently, she has bad news. That can only mean one thing.

My dad died. He actually died.

"What happened?" I ask. I don't actually want him to be dead, just for him to stay far, far away from me.

"Well, your cousin was here a minute ago." She reaches out and touches my forearm gently.

"From Alaska?" That's a big trip. Were they planning to come over? They couldn't have already come over after the news.

"A young man, blond. He asked me to tell you that Marley, well, he passed away." Well, that's definitely not my dad. The woman is on the verge of tears.

"Like Bob Marley? Because that ship sailed in the eight–"

"No." She shakes her head with watery eyes. "Your Siamese mix, Marely."

A random blond man pretending to be my cousin, sending a message via a fake cat dying? That can only be one person.

Instead of smiling, I start crying. Trying to get my tears to start flowing. The woman in front of me does not have to try very hard to cry; her tears hit her cheeks. The epitome of a crazy cat lady. I shake my head, bringing a hand in front of my mouth. "No. No. Not Marley. My baby boy," I sob.

Her hands rub up and down my arms in a comforting manner.

"When?" I ask, now running a finger under my eye to collect the tears I managed to get out.

"Well, we got the news just after you arrived. We thought you should know," She sympathises.

I bite my tongue to keep myself from smiling. It also helps my eyes water. "Yeah." I sniff.

"Oh, come here." The woman opens her arms, bringing me in for a hug. Her hands rub my back now, and I can feel her chest shake a little from her own tears. The second she can't see my face, I can't help the small smile on my face.

I don't know how the fucker did it, I just know he did.

"It's okay, it's okay," She soothes.

I pull away, "You know, I actually am gonna need a little more time to process." I tell her in a scratchy voice. This rivals my acting at the pawn shop. I'm destined for an Oscar.

"Take all the time you need, sweetie," She coos, her own voice still thick with emotion.

Fucking hell, this woman loves cats.

I walk in, a wide smile pulls at my lips, and when the door shuts behind me, the room doesn't feel so small.

I sit on the bed, and the room doesn't seem so dark.

I've got a little bit of hope.

JJ Maybank is going to be the death of me. But it'll be a death for the books.

Trying to kill more time, I search the cabin, and after a few hours, I find a book tucked away in a corner. One you can only see from one specific, awkward angle. I pull it out, and it's a recount of people's stays at the reflection cabin. They're all scathing, no one seems to he reflecting on anything other than hatred. Stewing is more accurate.