"I . . ." I can do this. Just keep breathing. There's that tightness in my stomach, like something is just twisting and twisting and it wonâe(tm)t let go until the moment is over. And everything will unravel, and I'll feel free. "I wanted to tell you two something." Dad looks at me now. This is it. It's kinda funny actually; the script I wrote for myself, the one I typed in Word so I'd cover everything I wanted to, it's just totally gone from my memory now. Like someone zapped it all away. Maybe that's for the best; maybe this is how I'll be the most honest with them. If it just comes from me and not some rehearsed version of myself, maybe that will help; maybe that'll be better? I tell them. Slowly. At first, relief floods over me. I think I can actually feel myself relax. I just wish that feeling could've lasted longer. Excerpted from I Wish You All the Best by Mason Deaver All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
