Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Like for real, just shut up every once in a while. Live in the moment and feel the zen or whatever the fuck you’re supposed to do, okay? Rolling my eyes at myself, I put the pizza crust back in the box. I ordered crust with garlic sauce brushed on it, thinking it would be like a breadstick and I’d be able to eat it. It’s strange, I know, that I love breadsticks but don’t like pizza crust.
Stopping myself from eating yet another slice of pizza and then being gassy the rest of the night just like Balloon, I close the box and get up, feeling instant relief when I step into the air-conditioned living room. The sun is still shining through the large windows, but it has that evening glow, the kind that promises a reprieve from the harshness of the hot sun while still holding onto the heat of the day.
My heart swells in my chest as I look around the living room. It’s so different yet the same, with updated photos on the gallery wall. Most are of me, a few are of Balloon, and the rest are Dad and Wendy. Wendy’s husband passed before they had children, and she confessed not that long ago she still regrets never allowing herself to move on and have a baby before she became too old to. But it all worked out, she says, because she met my father when she needed him most.
There’s a large stone fireplace centered in the far wall in the living room, perfect for winter nights when the lake is nearly frozen over and frost and snow cling to the surrounding trees. I came here two Christmases ago, arriving the day before Christmas Eve and then not being able to leave until the end of December thanks to a snowstorm. Since I moved, I’ve only returned to Silver Ridge a handful of times, and it’s all quick trips.
Two days for Thanksgiving. Three for Christmas. One for Dad’s birthday. Dad picks me up from the airport and drives to the house. We’re busy and time flies and I don’t leave the house. It’s safe, keeping me in a little bubble. Come home with a reason, stay distracted, and then leave.
I haven’t been back like this in, hell, six years. Not having a busy schedule or an organized agenda makes me anxious. Because when I don’t know exactly what to do every minute of every day, my mind starts to wander.
And being back here…looking around the house and hearing the happy chatter and distant rumble of boats out on the lake…it makes me worry my heart will wander as well.
Chapter Six
Sam
Chloe Fisher is in town.
Rory’s words echo through my head for the millionth time. Chloe. In town. This town. The one I’m in right now. It’s no surprise, not any more than it is for me to come back. Chloe’s from Silver Ridge and her father still lives here.
So why the fuck is it getting under my skin so much? And why can’t I get her off my mind? I’ve made it a point not to think about Chloe. I haven’t let the vision of her dark auburn hair flash through my mind. I haven’t missed the feel of her fingers sweeping against mine, wanting to grab my hand but too shy to link our fingers together.
I haven’t let myself think about the pale orange and red freckles that dot Chloe’s cheeks when she’s in the sun too long, how her hair curls around her face at the base of her neck when it’s hot outside, or how good she looked in a bikini the summer of her senior year. She visited her grandparents the first half of the summer and came back a cup size bigger, but I wasn’t distracted with her breasts or her hourglass figure. Nope. Not at all.
Just like how she hasn’t haunted me over the years, despite me refusing to believe in ghosts. Chloe is always there, in the back of my mind. Taunting. Teasing. Reminding me how much I fucked up.
“Sam?” Mom asks, in a tone that lets me know she’s called my name before. We’re all seated in the formal dining room, the large table and chairs rarely used unless we’re all here together. We were never allowed in here as kids, with Mom saying she wanted at least one nice, clean room in the house when people came over. The dining room is one of the first rooms you see when you walk in the house, opposite a small sitting room. The day Mom ordered ivory-colored couches and a pale pink area rug was the day Jacob, Mason, and I were banned from going in it.
“Yeah?” I ask, realizing my fork is hovering in the air, a bite of grilled chicken halfway between the plate and my mouth. I can feel everyone exchange glances, aware I wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to whatever was being said.