Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I whisper because I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to make it about me, but I have all these feelings and questions, and I don’t know what to do with them.
After a pause, as if she’s waiting for me to say more, she nods slowly. “Thanks. I’m sorry too.” She drops her gaze to the floor for a second, but then the oven timer buzzes.
I return to the dining room while running both hands through my hair. When Hunter glances up at me, I hide my pain behind a fake smile. I’m a fucking wreck.
For eight years, I’ve thought about Alice. Only in my dreams did I imagine seeing her again. Now, she’s here, canning tomatoes and pickling onions between loads of laundry. And I’m holed up in the bedroom, trying to get caught up on work, but my mind is shit.
Eight years, and here we are.
This is insane. Hunter is at the club. Vera and Blair are in New York. It’s just the two of us under the same roof, and I feel like a hostage, gagged and unable to speak, afraid of knowing all the details, and equally afraid of not knowing. I lean back in my chair and stare at the cursor blinking on my screen. Then I fixate on the hummingbird, taking nectar from the feeder outside the window.
After the bird flies away, I wad up a piece of paper and shoot it at Blair’s yellow leather tote across the room. It lands inside, so I try it again. But I can’t focus on anything for more than a minute or two.
Something taps the floor and my gaze flits to the open doorway and the plate with cookies and milk that appear out of nowhere. I lumber from my chair and peek around the corner as Alice sashays in the opposite direction, her pink dress hitting just below her knees, and her wedged shoes making her calves look sexier than ever.
“I refuse to snack alone,” I say.
She stops. “You’re not alone. You have your work.”
I feel weak and emasculated. Anything but brave. I want to know who Chris is or was. Why it took her fourteen months to recover from hydroplaning? What was in the water, if not this Chris person? Did she try to find me?
“I need help,” I say.
Alice turns. “I don’t know how to write instruction manuals.”
“I need help moving on from our last night together.”
She fiddles with her apron before smoothing her hands down the front of it. “You’re getting married. I think that’s considered moving on.”
I pick up the plate of cookies and milk. “You’re right. I guess I need help letting go.”
Her lips turn downward. “Murphy—”
“I just”—I shake my head—“I just need some of the gaps filled in because I’ve spent eight years trying to figure it out. So call it closure or whatever, but I can’t let it go until I know exactly what I’m letting go of.”
She chews on the inside of her cheek.
“I don’t want to cause you stress or bring up painful memories. I really don’t. So if this is too much to ask, then—”
“It’s not,” she murmurs. “It’s just more than you need. So I guess I’m trying to decide how to help you let go without giving you too much.”
I walk toward her, dipping a cookie into the milk and taking a bite. It softens her frown. “There’s nothing you could give me that’s too much.” Dipping the cookie again, I hold it up to her mouth.
It drips milk onto her apron, and she inspects the spot before giving me a raised eyebrow.
I snort while suppressing a laugh. “Oops.”
She takes a bite, and it drips onto her chin, so I wipe it with my thumb. She stiffens for a second before slowly chewing and swallowing.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper.
She takes a step backward. “Blair is—”
I shake my head. “Don’t. I can love her and miss you. Two things can be true at once. Grief doesn’t die. It just learns to coexist with a new reality. In fact,” I take another bite of the cookie, “when it’s just the two of us, let’s not talk about Blair or what’s his name.”
Her nose wrinkles. “His name is Cal—”
“Shh.” I shake my head. “Nope. It’s just you and me. Cookies. Milk. Manuals to write. Tomatoes to can. And Hunter’s streaked underwear to fold.”
Her giggle reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart. “His underwear doesn’t have streaks. And even if they did, you knowing that would be weird.”
“The guy farts more than a thirty-year-old truck with exhaust issues.”
“He does not.” She rolls her eyes before returning to the kitchen.
I follow her. “He does, just not in front of you. I never said he’s not a gentleman. He holds it in until you’re out the door, then he explodes.”