Chapter 9: Why Eat When You Can Read

When Shelby woke, the sun was shining brightly through the curtains—too brightly to be morning. Unless maybe, she thought, rubbing her eyes and stretching her back, finding herself alone in bed; maybe it was sunrise?

She turned her head to check the clock. It read 7:30.

The sun didn't rise at 7:30, did it? She figured it must be night—that she had been tired enough to sleep the entire day away.

She found a hair tie on the bedside table and pulled her hair into a messy bun before slowly climbing out from under the sheets and making her way out to the kitchen to see if she could find Cassie. Her stomach growled as she walked down the hallway and by some miracle she found Cassie in the kitchen, tending to a pot on the stove.

Cass spun around, hearing Shelby's footsteps. "Good morning, Starshine." She smirked. "You hungry? I bought some tomato basil bread and made you tomato basil soup—I know it's your favorite."

Shelby smiled a small smile and Cass set her soup and bread on the table in front of her. Shelbs sat down.

"You don't have to wait on me, Cassie." She said softly.

With a scoff, Cass kissed Shelby's forehead. "I know I don't have to." She rolled her eyes. "But you need someone. You need comfort and I'm here. I will always be here."

"Do you promise?" Shelby asked.

"I promise." Cassandra smiled.

Shelby managed a half smile and tried her soup. It was incredible. "Thank you." She said. "For everything."

"Of course," Cassie responded.

They ate soup in silence and Cassie whispered, "I have to go back to work tomorrow."

Shelby stiffened, slightly. "Oh. So this is guilt soup." She determined.

"Slightly?"

"And you won't always be here." Shelby's tone was numb—Cassandra dared to ever call it somewhat hard.

"Shelbs, I'll be here as much as humanly possible. I'm a dance instructor—I work flexible hours and only from noon to ten…"

"I know," Shelby sad, with a hand wave. She knew she was just being dramatic—of course Cass had to work. "I'm just being selfish. Work is important." But she still had to wonder what would happen to her once she was alone.

"Please stop calling yourself selfish," Cassandra said. "Baby, you know nothing is more important in my life than you and Beth, and if we didn't need the money—"

"I know," Shelby reasoned. "It's okay."

She wouldn't be completely alone. She would have Beth. Speaking of Beth…

"Where is Beth?" she took another spoonful of soup.

"Playing in her room. Last I checked she was drawing. I think we have an artist on our hands."

"Hmm."

Shelby was trying—really, really trying—not to be cold, or hard, or numb, or sad. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her mind off of Rachel.

About how she gave Jesse a tap so Rachel would go looking for her, and once Rachel had found her, she'd said no. Said any relationship they had would just be confusing. Practically pushed her away, and said that they would, "admire each other from afar for now".

Because of Shelby, they'd had no time to bond. Because of Shelby, all she would ever know about her first born would come from the letters that Rachel had written to her.

Because Shelby had been too scared to let them try any kind of relationship. Because she hadn't even given them a chance.

And now, they would never have one.

Rachel was dead.

Another unwanted tear slid down Shelby's cheeks—they were getting so raw from sobbing so much, and her throat very hoarse.

Suddenly, though the meal Cassie had made her was very good and she could feel her stomach growling, Shelby wasn't feeling so hungry anymore. Melancholy, she stared off in thought.

Cassandra's voice slowly pulled Shelby out of her thoughts.

"What are you thinking about, Sweetheart?" she wondered.

A pause occurred before Shelby responded, "I have to keep reading those letters. I can't stop again until they're finished."

Cass double blinked. "There are a LOT of letters there, Shelby…"

"Well then I guess I'd better start reading them, huh?" she asked, grabbing a pen and notebook as she made her way back to grab the box and sit on the couch. She stared down at the couch cushion and rubbed her hand against it, slowly. Until she was finished with these letters, this couch would be her best friend. The pen and paper would be used to answer the questions that Rachel asked throughout her letters. Even though Rachel would never be able to read her answers, she remembered sadly. Every time it re-occurred to her that her daughter was no longer living she was punched in the stomach once more. She was still in shock.

And she couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, she always would be.