Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
If only I could have lost a few pounds before the wedding…
I sigh.
Oh, well.
It doesn’t matter, anyway.
My girl-next-door looks are nothing around the gorgeous Steel and Simpson clan. I’m not exactly hideous, but every Steel could be a damned model. I’ll just have to get used to being the forgettable one in the room.
It kind of sucks, to be honest, because I’m usually the life of the party.
But not with Sage Simpson around. And not in this sea of beautiful—not to mention richer-than-God—people.
“I think it’s fab,” Sage gushes.
Right. We’re back to my hair.
“Thanks,” I say again.
“It does look great, Tabs,” Angie says. “I know I wasn’t on board at first, but you’re going to look gorgeous in the bridesmaid dress.”
She’s not wrong. Angie chose the color—a periwinkle blue—and fabric—lush satin—and then she let each of us choose our own designs for the gown out of four choices. It was sweet of her. I’ve been to so many weddings where the bridesmaids wore poofy monstrosities. This way, we could each choose a look that flatters our individual bodies.
Not that I’ll look anything like the rest of the Steels during the weekend’s events.
Sage, of course, chose the strapless number, and her blue is a bit darker since she’s the maid of honor.
I chose a dress with spaghetti straps and a full skirt. May as well accent my curves, and the dress fits like a glove. I had it sent ahead after I had a fitting in Boulder. It should be in the closet here at Angie’s house.
I open the closet and there it is, covered in plastic.
“I need to try it on again, I suppose,” I say.
“Not right now, you don’t,” Sage says. “Right now, you need a drink.”
“And food!” Angie agrees. “I’m starving.”
“You both know I never turn down food or drinks.” I flash them my most charming grin, and the three of us let out a laugh.
I just wish mine felt genuine.
Four
Henry
I can hear them from the hallway. Tabitha, Angie, and Sage’s laughter echoing off the walls. I should join them. This is a happy occasion, after all.
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
Besides, I shouldn’t be around Tabitha. She makes me want things I have no business wanting.
If only we’d met a year ago. Before…everything.
So instead of joining them, I retreat into my room. Well…my room when I was growing up in this house. It’s been years since this was actually my room—I moved out some time ago—but this is still where I come when things get to be too much. It’s exactly how I left it, and I sometimes stay here if we’ve had a party and I’ve tied one on.
The queen-size bed was a gift for my tenth birthday. The mattress was replaced when I left for college, but everything else is the same. My awards on the wall, my baseball glove on the shelf, even the vintage record player Uncle Joe gave me when I was going through my retro phase. A little slice of Henry history.
I settle down on the bed. Zach jumps up to join me. Memories flood me as I think back to when things were simpler, when life was about baseball games, ranch chores, and family dinners.
Before I knew what it felt like to take a life.
I run my hand over Zach’s head. His eyes look into mine with such understanding that I feel like he knows what’s going on inside my head.
That’s the thing about dogs. They just get it.
They sense your mood, your feelings, even before you fully understand them yourself. I wish people were like that. Simpler. But we’re not. We’re complicated and messy, filled with secrets and unspoken words.
Our humanity makes us beautiful and ugly at the same time.
Zach’s tail thumps against the comforter.
“You’re always happy, aren’t you, boy?”
I continue to pet him as I glance to the picture frame on my nightstand. It’s a photo of Dad and me after my first baseball game. I was barely tall enough to reach his waist then. That day feels like a century ago, yet it also feels like yesterday.
I was good at baseball. Terrific, actually. I was a star in high school—the only one in our family to excel at the sport. My cousins Donny, Bradley, and Brock were all champion football players. The football coach tried to recruit me because of my size—and probably because of my name—but it was never my jam. I didn’t like the idea of potentially hurting other players.
I never liked the idea of hurting anyone, to be honest.
So much for that.
Again, it’s not guilt I feel.
Not remorse.
I’d do it all again in a minute.
But that doesn’t mean I want to remember the feel of a gun in my hand or the deadly finality of a bullet leaving the chamber. The eternal knowledge that I ended another human’s life.