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)
“My toes hurt just thinking about it.”
She giggled. “Give yourself a little more credit. You’ve taught me to dance.”
I unlocked the car. “I’ve taught you to sway so you don’t have to step on my toes as much.”
“That’s what I said. You taught me to dance.”
I tried to grin instead of pout, but damn the clock continued to tick. Dancing wasn’t going to change that. And by that point, I just wanted to crawl under the sheets with her and convince her to tell me everything or invite me to come with her—something more than blind faith that she’d return. I wasn’t religious enough to feel comforted by that.
“I didn’t know rain was predicted,” she said as we pulled onto the street and droplets splattered against the windshield.
“Me neither.” I turned on the wipers.
The gravity of our last hours together seemed to leave us without anything to say. I opened my mouth to speak more than once, but each time, I closed it just as quickly because the right words weren’t there.
As we approached a bridge over the river, I saw something in the road and slowed down. When I realized my car was hydroplaning, I let up on the brakes. Still, the car drifted a bit to the side, and Alice lost it.
“Noooo!” She lunged for the steering wheel.
“What are you doing?” I tried to push her away before she steered us down the embankment or into the water. I had things under control. There was no need to panic.
Before I got the car stopped along the side of the road, she unbuckled and opened her door.
“What are you—”
I reached for her, but she rolled out before I got to a complete stop.
“Alice!” I called, shoving the car into Park and running after her as she slid on her butt down the embankment.
“Chris!” She yelled over and over before diving into the water.
Chapter Thirty
Murphy
It’s much easier to fall in love than out of love.
I can’t undo what’s been done. Alice knows.
Now what?
As soon as I smell coffee, I know she’s in the kitchen making breakfast. The warm wood floor absorbs my steps without creaking.
Just as I reach the dining room, Hunter clears his throat and glances up from his phone, readers low on his nose. “Morning,” he says.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?” I sit at the opposite end of the table.
“Much better. Alice made elderberry cough syrup and gave me a dose before bed.”
I didn’t hear her come into the house last night, but before I can say as much, Alice brings his coffee, carefully pouring it into his gold-rimmed cup while offering me a quick smile.
“Coffee, Murphy?” she asks.
How can she look at me as if yesterday never happened?
I stare at her, waiting for her to break, but she doesn’t. So I nod slowly. “Thank you.”
She places another cup and saucer in front of me and fills it.
“I talked to Vera this morning, and the women seem to be having a great time. I think we should head to the country club, get in eighteen holes, and spend the rest of the afternoon drinking. They’re setting off fireworks later.”
Hunter’s suggestion hangs in the air as I silently beg Alice to look at me again, but she just turns and floats back to the kitchen as if her conscience has no gravity.
“Put in thirty years of marriage, and you can have an Alice, too.” Hunter smirks, catching me watching Alice.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, ignoring his comment about Alice, “but I need to catch up on work before Blair returns.”
“I thought you were catching up yesterday.”
I sip my coffee, buying a little time. “Sadly, one day wasn’t enough.”
“Fine. I’ll give you the day but meet me for dinner at the country club.”
I nod because it sounds like a demand, not a question.
Hunter’s phone rings, and he squints at the screen before mumbling, “What now?”
As he answers the call, I use it as an excuse to step into the kitchen.
Alice glances over her shoulder while arranging flowers in a vase. “Can I get you something for breakfast?”
I lean my backside against the island, hands resting on the edge of the counter.
When I don’t answer, she takes a second glance back at me. This time, she pauses her hands.
“I was in a mental hospital for fourteen months,” she says, facing the vase again, cutting another stem and tucking it into the arrangement. “PTSD. Depression. Severe anxiety. Suicide ideation. But that was then. This is now. Sometimes life sucks; sometimes it doesn’t. It’s good to see you. It’s even better to see that you’re in a good place.”
She piles the discarded stems into the small bucket and turns, hands folded in front of her. “I’m in a good place too.”
Jesus Christ.
My physical response remains masked behind clenched teeth. She was in a mental hospital for fourteen months? What the hell? And now she’s good, and supposedly I’m good? That’s it?