Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “Either way, if you don’t have dinner plans, I’ll be home by six.” I turn and make my way to the exit. “Feel free to wait for me there. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
“I’ll need an address … and a key,” he says, right behind me.
I turn when I get to the door. “No, you won’t.” I smirk.
“My days of nefarious activities are over.”
Pushing through the door, I laugh. “You found me here.”
“That’s basic internet information.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you later. Maybe I won’t.”
I’m dying.
My heart’s clawing at my ribcage, and my tummy’s doing acrobatics. Playing cool has never felt this excruciating. As I stroll toward the opposite end of the building, I cave for a second and glance over my shoulder.
Jack’s leaned against the wall, fingers tucked into his front pockets. A face-splitting grin. And he’s just watching me.
Zero concentration. Less than zero.
I smile and nod during my meetings. When asked questions, I fumble my words only to have to request the question be repeated. Two fender benders on the way home force me to reroute, taking twice as long to get there. When I pull into my garage at six-thirty, I’m bummed that there’s no car in my driveway.
Maybe he took a cab.
“Breathe,” I whisper against my racing pulse before opening the house door.
Beautiful notes fill the space around me when I step inside. I don’t recognize the song. Lowering my bag to the floor and slipping off my ankle boots, I pad my way to the great room with my favorite centerpiece and person perched on its bench.
Jack eyes me without missing a note. “You fixed Black Beauty.”
My fingers slide along the lid. “Black Beauty?”
He nods.
“You named your piano?”
“Of course.”
I know the song. He’s playing “The Story” by Brandi Carlisle, but he’s added some parts.
“Did you not have a piano?” He glances at his hands for a second.
“I did. A nameless piano.”
“What happened to it?”
“It’s at the university on loan. I didn’t have room for two.” I sit next to him, facing the opposite direction. When my arm brushes him, my breath catches in silence.
“Why take Black Beauty?”
I lean into him. “You know why,” I whisper.
He stops playing, leaving his hands resting on the keys. “I got her after Jessica and I were relocated to Omaha. Beauty made the trip from Omaha to San Francisco. San Francisco to Kansas. And Kansas to New York.”
I glance up at him. “Where will she go next?”
Jack’s brows tighten for a second. “I’m not sure.”
It hurts to see him as much as it breathes life back into my soul to know he’s alive. So much has happened.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers.
I shake my head a half dozen times even though I can’t speak actual words. If I don’t blink, I’ll be fine. No tears.
Then …
That amber-eyed gaze sweeps along my face as his knuckles brush my cheek.
Don’t cry.
His middle finger touches my forehead, drawing that invisible line down my nose while the pads of his other fingers ghost over my eyes, forcing them to blink—forcing me to set the tears free.
I’m a goner. My lips quiver beneath his touch.
“I’m sorry I let it happen,” his voice cracks.
Again, I shake my head but can’t speak past the emotion clogging my throat. There’s so much I want to say, but I physically can’t.
I stand, wiping my eyes and taking a few steps from the piano. “Y-you did nothing wrong.” Sniffling, I swallow over and over to find space for the words to come out. “Let’s … let’s grab dinner.” Drawing a superhuman breath, I turn and smile while wiping my eyes again. “I’m starving.”
“Frankie …” Worry lines trench along his forehead.
“Do you like pizza? I haven’t had pizza in a while.”
Sliding the bench back, he stands but won’t match my smile. Not even close. “Francesca …” He steps toward me.
Again, I swallow past the emotion and hug myself, so he doesn’t feel the need to do it. I am a survivor. Not a victim.
As much as I’ve missed him and prayed he wasn’t dead, what kept me from searching for him was this right here—standing on the edge of this moment. The expectant look on his face like I have something to explain or confess. Because the last time he saw me, I was half-naked on my hands and knees. I can barely look him in the eye, let alone speak of what happened that night.
“Can we not look back? I’m not. I’m just … living.”
“I … I need to reconcile all of this in my head.” He slowly shakes his head as if he doesn’t understand why I don’t understand.
“Have you reunited with your daughter?”
When he doesn’t answer, I’m forced to lift my gaze to him. He doesn’t answer me intentionally because he wants me to look him in the eye. Does he think I’ll see all the things he wants to say? Because I do. I see the unspoken words and emotions that are too strong for words. That’s why we don’t need to discuss it.