Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Except not lately, according to AMM.
“Go on vacation to Maple Creek,” I answer honestly, letting my gaze drift around the living room.
She stares at me for one heartbeat, then two, then three as my words sink in. I’m not only talking about her but also sharing more of myself too.
“I wish I could do that,” she confides. “Go somewhere where I don’t know anybody and have an adventure.”
“You can. There’s nothing stopping you. Hell, go on your honeymoon without Roy and do the five-star shit, if you want. Why not?” I almost offer to take her somewhere, anywhere. If there were a map or a globe in this place, I’d have her throw the closest sharp object at it and we’d go tonight. I could make that happen with one phone call—though that would definitely lead to questions I don’t want.
Instead, I wait for her answer.
“It feels wrong, like I have unfinished business here, you know? I don’t want to deal with it, but I can’t be cruel to Roy like that. Today was his day, too, and I hurt him.”
She’s got a soft heart, which I can respect.
Fragile sweetness, strength at your core. Drown in the softness, until I’m no more.
She moves the conversation away from that sensitive spot, telling me about various places around town I should be sure to visit while I’m here. She’s no tour guide, given that as she tells me about the various stores and businesses, I learn more about the people of Maple Creek and what Hope thinks of them than about the destinations themselves.
“For lunch? You have to go to Rosemary’s Diner. She’s the absolute sweetest woman ever, a staple of Maple Creek who makes the best burgers and cake. But don’t tell Anna at Cruz Cakes that, or she won’t sell you a slice of her famous honeybun cake, and you’d be missing out if you didn’t get that. The museum on Main Street is run by Frank, and he knows more about our town than anyone else and somehow makes a pretty dull history into something interesting. Oh, and I know you said you don’t like fresh air and outdoorsy stuff, but Marcus runs a super-popular boat tour. He does a champagne-sunset one and a coffee-sunrise one seven days a week during high season. You’d think the sunset is better, but the sunrise over the water is gorgeous this time of year, and it’s so quiet out there before anyone else wakes up. His coffee’s good too.”
I’ve damn near got an itinerary mapped out before Hope’s done, without a single titmouse in sight. Maybe this is what I came here for? Maybe Maple Creek is why I’m here? The inspiration I need?
Or Hope. She’s inspiring me, too, lyrics spinning in my head as she speaks, revealing herself and her town, piece by piece. Maybe she’s the muse I’ve been searching for.
Chapter 5
HOPE
Lying in bed, I can feel the impending panic attack that’s been building all day getting closer and closer, like a train coming down the tracks, heading straight for me.
I wanted an escape, and Ben’s done a great job of providing that all evening. We talked about nothing of importance, which was exactly what I needed. He kept me laughing with his dry sense of humor, preventing my brain from short-circuiting into a loop of oh my God on repeat. And once he noticed I was going for the tiny dill pickles on the admittedly Lunchable-esque board, he started pushing them all my way. Pickles and beer certainly aren’t the dinner I thought I’d have, but nothing about today is what I thought my wedding day would be like.
Now, in the quiet darkness, the anxiety is coming full throttle. And so are the tears, which are sliding hotly down my cheeks and onto the pillow I’m clutching like a lifeline.
What have I done? Why did I do it? And most importantly, now what?
I toss and turn, not having any answers, until a quiet sound catches my attention. I flip over, listening again.
What is that?
It’s Ben, I realize. He’s playing his guitar, so low I can barely hear the chords he’s strumming. Focusing on that, I try to identify the song, but it doesn’t sound familiar. After a while, I realize he’s playing the same bit over and over, like he’s learning it. I still don’t recognize it, though I’m not sure if it’s because I’m unfamiliar with the tune or he’s not very good at it yet.
Whatever it is, it’s now the soundtrack of broken dreams as I completely shatter into a million glittery pieces, crying myself to sleep. Not because I regret what I’ve done, but because . . . I don’t.
“Sage! Olive! Breakfast is ready!” I shout down the hall, smiling when I hear the pounding of little feet coming my way.