Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
By late afternoon, Brad storms into my office again, arms crossed. “Eight hours. You’ve been at it eight hours. Congratulations, you proved your point. Now go home.”
I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head feels like it’s caught in a vise. I don’t admit it to him, but the thought of moving makes me nauseated.
Dad appears in the doorway not long after. He must have coordinated with Brad, because the two of them exchange a look before Dad says, “Let’s go, Henry.”
For once, I don’t argue.
The drive home is quiet. All I can think about is the pounding in my skull and the gnawing ache in my chest that has nothing to do with surgery.
Tabitha.
I no longer have any work to keep myself from dwelling on her. The woman I pushed away. And now she’s staying away.
I close my eyes and lean against the headrest. Her face blares into my mind—her honey hair falling into her eyes, that determined little crease between her brows when she’s thinking hard. I see her in the kitchen of the ranch house, laughing with Angie. I see her in the guest room, the door locked, the world shut out for just one night.
That night burns through me like a fever.
I wanted her so badly I could barely think straight. Wanted her the way we were the first time, hard and desperate, as if the world might shatter if I didn’t have her. But I made love to her. Slow. Reverent. Every inch of her mapped with my hands, my mouth, as if memorizing her would save me.
And for a moment, I believed it did.
I open my eyes, but the images don’t fade. They only sharpen. The soft sound of her sighs, the warmth of her skin, the way her body arched into mine like she’d been waiting for me as long as I’d been waiting for her.
Then morning came. And I left.
Fucking coward.
Now the house looms into view. Dad pulls up and cuts the engine. “You pushed too hard,” he says.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You keep saying that.” His tone is quiet but heavy. “You’re not invincible, Henry. Stop trying to be.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Inside, I head straight for my room. I don’t bother with dinner. My body is heavy, my head pounding, but when I lie down, sleep won’t come. I toss, shift, flip the pillow to the cool side. Nothing helps.
Every time I close my eyes, she’s there. Tabitha, standing in the doorway of my future, and I’m too damned broken to walk through it.
The beeping monitors, the blinding lights of the hospital, the sharp sting of pain… Those I could handle. But the thought of living the rest of my life without her? That’s the wound that won’t heal.
I flip the pillow again, give up, and switch on the lamp. Zach lifts his head from the rug and thumps his tail once, as if to say still here, and then resettles with a sigh.
Tabitha.
Ralph Normandy.
It’s all a big fucking mess.
And…
Francine Stokes.
My birth mother who I recently was hellbent on researching.
Tabitha didn’t come. She’s history, as much as I don’t want to face it.
But Francine Stokes?
There’s still a chance.
I pull out my laptop and fire it up, finding the file of information.
A phone number in Palm Springs.
I stare at it until the numbers blur. It’s an hour earlier there. My head is a drum. This is a bad idea.
I pull my phone from the nightstand anyway.
Zach stands and comes to sit with his chin on the edge of the bed. I scratch between his ears and hit the call button.
Two rings. Three. Four.
Five.
“Hello?” The voice is low and husky either from time or cigarettes. Possibly both.
My mouth goes dry. I almost hang up. “Hi,” I say. “Is this Francine?”
Silence. Then, “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Henry.” The room tilts and rights itself. “I’m calling from Colorado.”
“Mmm.” Ice clinks against glass on her end. “If you’re going to try to sell me something, sweetie, you’re wasting your time.”
Seriously? The name Henry doesn’t ring a bell at all with her?
“I’m not.” I swallow. “I don’t want anything from you. I just… I’m trying to confirm something.”
Zach noses my palm. I grip the phone tighter.
“Go on,” she says.
“I think…” I clear my throat. “I think you’re my mother.”
On the other end, the ice stops clinking.
“You have a last name, Henry?” She speaks slowly, more measured now.
I clear my throat again, rub my temples to ease the throbbing. “Simpson. My father is Bryce Simpson.”
I close my eyes. The headache drills behind them.
Finally, she exhales. “I haven’t heard that last name in a very long time.”
I sit up straighter. “So you are—”
“I didn’t say yes.” A rustle, like she’s moving to another room. “Tell me your birthday.”
I rattle it off.
Another rustle. Another long silence. Zach lays his head on my knee and breathes slowly.