Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I return to my car and toss the wine I’ve just bought inside. Maybe the bayou can clear my mind, too. Or better yet, maybe I’ll find someone there who can make me forget my life for a while . . .
CHAPTER
30
The air feels even thicker out here.
I park along the edge of the brush, walk the path I somehow still remember to get down to the beat-up old dock. Damp soil and decaying leaves yield an earthy scent unique to the bayou. The spongy ground squelches with each step as I push Spanish moss hanging from gnarled cypress trees out of my way. Thick roots snake out to make the short trek in heels even more daunting than it needs to be, while cicadas and mosquitos buzz all around, creating a low hum. It’s interrupted by the occasional croak of a frog or chirp of a bird, but it’s otherwise eerily quiet. Yet there’s still something beautiful about this place—the way the late-afternoon light filters in through a canopy of bending trees and their damp trunks seem to glow. Though none of it holds a candle to the sight of the man wearing a white T-shirt and backward baseball cap holding a fishing pole while sitting at the end of the pier.
Noah must sense he’s being watched. He sits up a little straighter, turns, and glances over his shoulder. His slow, confident smile curves up when he sees me, and what is otherwise an awful day feels a little brighter. There’s a glimmer of hope, a promise of something. I’m not sure what, but something besides thinking about my mother.
I walk down the long pier to the end and take the seat next to him—without hesitating, without asking.
“Hey.” He doesn’t hide the surprise in his voice, though according to Lucas, it’s public knowledge that I’m in town. “You’re here.”
“I am.”
I wait for him to say something—to ask why I’m back or say what everyone says when someone important to you dies: I’m sorry. It’s a pressure building under my skin, and I just want to get it over with.
But Noah just sips his beer and extends the half-full bottle to me to take a swig. “Been boring around here without you,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile, his dimples making their presence known. “Glad you’re back.”
All I can do is stare at him. Stare into his father’s eyes. Oddly, it doesn’t make me want to turn and run, even knowing it was me, that I am Jocelyn. Instead, as I accept the beer from his hand, Noah’s eyes zone in on my lips. I take a long pull, and the hungry look on his face makes me feel something very different from the way I’ve felt the last twenty-odd hours. I’m probably deranged for feeling it, knowing what I now know I’ve done—I swallow—with his father. But I don’t care.
My hand clenches the beer bottle, and I imagine gripping Noah’s hair in my hands, pulling tight enough to make him hiss in pain, in pleasure. I envision my nails scraping down his skin, the palm of my hand covering his mouth, being in control, on top this time. I salivate, practically able to hear the loud crack of my hand connecting with his skin. Hard. Fantasy lets me escape the world that is reality, the reason I’m here.
For a few precious seconds, I pretend Noah is the reason I’m here. He may as well be.
“How did you know where to find me?” he asks.
“When we were at the bar before, you told me where you go to clear your head. Mine needs some clearing today, too. Hope you don’t mind I crashed your party.”
Noah takes the beer back, takes another long swallow, and we both stare out at the murky water. I can understand why this is a place that can clear his mind. There’s a unique stillness out here that you can’t find anywhere else—especially not in New York City. After a long bout of silence, I look over and catch Noah’s eyes once again.
“What was it like to lose a parent?”
He blinks at me, seeming startled by the question. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse to answer it, maybe reel in his line and head back to his truck. But instead he chugs what’s left in the bottle, then reaches for another and cracks it open, staring into space for a while before sighing. “Shitty. Even if you don’t always get along, it’s like you’ve lost something you’ll never get back.”
“You didn’t get along with your parents?”
He shrugs. “Not my father. I was only a kid, but we butted heads. He . . .” Noah hesitates, shakes his head.
There’s something there, the way he’s unsure about continuing. It makes my heart rate pick up, anxiety pulse in my head. My mouth goes dry, even in this peaceful place. “What?” I ask, prodding him. “He what?”