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 inside long enough to dig for a box of matches. Finding some, I use a bit of kindling from the waning wood supply stacked against the house. I start a fire, let the orange embers flicker, and think of my mother’s body at the crematorium. The funeral director told me I could pick up her ashes in a few days, suggested I purchase one of his overpriced urns for my mantel. But the idea of keeping a powdered version of Mom’s body in my house doesn’t sit right. I could dump them, but where? Most people do it somewhere meaningful, somewhere the person loved. The only things Mom loved were men, alcohol, and the church.
Nausea sweeps through me as the flames come back into focus. My mother—my mother, who sucked as a parent, but who some part of me still loved—is being turned into nothing but dust. Will she feel it? What if when we die—
I force myself to stop. Obsessing over the what-ifs never changes anything. Instead, I open the folder and strip off one piece of paper, then another, slowly feeding them to the fire. It builds to a blaze, burning all remnants of Jocelyn, just as is being done to my mother. Both will be nothing more than a memory.
The fire eventually peters out, so I go back inside. Though too much adrenaline is pulsing through my veins to sit down and relax. I could drink more wine, but I don’t want to be here in this house right now. Instead, I grab my purse and my keys, stare out the window, and wonder, What now?
I could leave. Just go, and ask the church to deal with her stuff. They might. Or they might say it’s my responsibility, and I’d have to come back again.
No, when I leave here this time, I’m never coming back. Never ever.
Maybe a distraction, then. That’s what I need.
I get in the car, decide to take a ride. Twenty minutes later, I’m crossing a bridge, driving with the woods on both sides of me. But there’s even less to occupy my mind out here than at Mom’s, and my thoughts start to wander to a dark place again. Without warning—I’m lucky there’s no one behind me because I never even looked—I slam on the brakes, pull to the side of the rocky dirt road, and cut the wheel sharply. Not long after, I’m heading back through town. A quick glance at the bar’s parking lot tells me Noah’s not there, and suddenly, I’m not meandering anymore—I know where I’m going.
I pull into the driveway, park, sit there to the count of ten, debating.
But then I step out of the car.
Turns out, I need a different kind of distraction. A different kind of ride.
CHAPTER
35
The front door is open again.
It makes me wonder if he knew I’d come, knew I’d need to work out my frustrations after the funeral today. Though if that’s the case, it’s pretty cocky of him, considering Sam showed up at the church.
The door creaks open. It’s dark downstairs. Quiet enough that I might think no one is home if it weren’t for the truck in the driveway. My heels clack against the wood floors as I walk, the sound echoing off walls since there’s no furniture to catch it. I could take my shoes off, but why? I have no reason to hide that I’m here. Then again, maybe he has company already. A woman. With those cavernous dimples and the way he gives a woman his full attention, I’m certain there’ve been many visitors taking this walk. My pulse pounds as I climb the stairs.
The second floor is dark, too, except for a streak of light spilling out into the hallway from the master bedroom. I briefly debate getting undressed like I did the other night, but decide shimmying my underwear down my legs is quicker.
I stop a few feet from the door when I see him. Noah sits on the bed shirtless, his back propped against pillows, engrossed in whatever he’s typing fervently into a laptop. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his features, highlighting his chiseled jawline. He really is a good-looking man. His hair is tousled, like he’s run a hand through it a few times. But it strikes the perfect balance of mess with his otherwise flawless features. And he’s wearing glasses tonight—horn-rimmed, perched on the bridge of his nose like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. I like it. A lot.
“Did I get you in trouble with your boyfriend?” he asks without looking up.
I step to the door and push it open halfway, staying inside the doorframe. “Don’t have a boyfriend.”
He looks up. “Because of today?”
“Because that’s the way I like it.”
He smirks and shakes his head. “I’m glad you came.”