Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Let me guess, that’s one of the reasons you’re on the fence about taking the job?”
I chuckle, removing the pillow from my face. “It’s not the main reason, but it’s a reason.”
“Ugh! Everleigh, you know I’m a busy person. It’s not like I would take the train up there every weekend to see you.”
“No?”
“No. I’d just move there.”
“Stop.” I giggle, and so does she.
“I’m serious, sweetheart. Don’t pass up this opportunity because you’re worried I’ll suffocate you. And don’t pass it up for Will or any other guy. You deserve to be chased. Pursued. Respected. Coveted. And Will is a very nice man. Handsome to the extreme. But if he doesn’t want to chase you, then he’s not the one.”
“What if he wants to chase me, but he doesn’t want to leave his mom after his dad dies?”
“Yes, you want the man who loves his mother, but who loves you just a little bit more.”
“Spoken like someone who has never been married.”
“I’m observant. That’s what gives me wisdom and the clarity to see other people’s mistakes. I’m not blinded by love.”
“I’m not blinded by love, either.”
“So you’re going to take the job?”
“Yes,” I say for the first time, and my heart immediately dies in my chest.
I’m taking the job.
The doctor I’ve become doesn’t care about the stupid, lovesick girl beneath the white coat and well-practiced facade. I think of Austin, Emma, Bethany, Caleb, and the hundreds of other children I’ve helped. It would be stupid to choose a man who doesn’t love me the way I love him. And I’m not stupid. Well, starting today, I’m not stupid.
“Yes? Yesss!” Mom celebrates for both of us.
I smile through my tears.
I’m taking the job and leaving William Landry, hoping he’ll chase me. For the first time in my adult life, I’m thinking only about my career and the people whom I can help. Voltaire, Uncle Ben, and Will are right: With great power comes great responsibility.
“Okay. When? Do you need help moving? I can come help you pack your stuff and drive a moving truck as soon as I finish this commission piece. Whatever you need.”
Endless tears slide down the sides of my face as I stare at the ceiling. I took the job in Missoula because of William Landry. I bought ten acres overlooking the mountains. The barndominium was supposed to be a project Will and I worked on together. The Airstream. The trip here. It’s all for him.
The love I’ve had for this man feels like its own death as I prepare to leave everything behind.
“They’re paying all of my moving expenses. Besides, since my house burned down, I don’t own much. I’ll hire out the rest of the work on the barndominium and either rent it or sell it. I’ll sell my Airstream. I’ll just . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose and bite my quivering lower lip for a second. “I’ll let it all go.” I’ll let him go.
“Can we talk about Will’s dad for a second?” she asks.
I sit up and wipe my face. “There’s nothing to talk about. He’s dying. I’m moving to Baltimore.”
“Everleigh—”
“I’ll call you when I get back home at the end of the week or on Thanksgiving.”
“Everleigh—”
“Love you.” I end the call. With a heavy exhale, I stand, tip up my chin, and return to the bathroom to dry my hair and pick up the pieces of my carefully sorted emotions. As the hum of the dryer drowns out my inner psychiatrist, I put those pieces back where they belong: locked behind a vault.
Then, despite my amateur culinary skills, I find ingredients for minestrone soup and a recipe online. While it simmers, I listen to an audiobook under a heater on the porch, waiting for Will or his mom to return.
But they don’t.
I resist texting him, and instead eat a bowl of the soup before putting the rest of the pot in the fridge. After a few minutes curled up on the sofa, staring at the barren fireplace, I decide to start a fire from the stack of wood and kindling next to the hearth. The warmth and flickering flames soothe my nerves.
A little after eight, the front door opens. I pull out my AirPods and gauge Will’s expression before saying anything or even offering a smile.
He removes his boots, shoulders curled inward, and he has no expression of joy to offer. Just a shell of a man in faded denim jeans, a worn black-and-gray flannel shirt, and wayward hair that looks like it’s taken the brunt of his frustration.
“Hi,” I say, slowly standing and folding the red fleece throw blanket as the fire crackles behind me.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
When he glances up, I offer a sad smile. “What do you need?”
“A miracle,” he whispers as if the weight of the world is crushing his chest.