Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Jesus, Elora,” he whispers.
Ignoring the tightness in the back of my throat, I pull my eyes off his. “So I’ve been here in Oregon, waiting for the funeral home to send me her ashes.” I let out a breath and wrap my arms around my middle. “They got here yesterday.”
“You’re leaving soon, then?”
I nod. “Monday.”
“And you’re traveling alone? Where are your friends? Your family?”
“No one understood. They all thought I was crazy when I told them my plan, and…”
“And?”
“My mom’s family was absolutely against me doing what I’m doing.” I slow as we reach the edge of the tide pools and smile at the two young kids guarding the area to make sure no one picks up any of the sea creatures that call the small pools of water home when the ocean calls the tide back out to sea.
“What about you? How long are you staying here?”
“I’m not sure.” He tips his head back to look up at the rock wall in front of us. It reminds me of him, beautiful but dangerous with all its jagged edges. His chest expands on a deep breath as he drags his fingers through his thick hair.
“Are you going back to New York?”
“I should.” He looks down at me. “When you’re done, are you going back to Wyoming?”
“I don’t know.” Wandering away from him, I walk to a pool of water surrounded by black rock and squat to get a closer look at a brightly colored starfish clinging to the edge.
The truth is, I don’t even know if I’m welcome in my hometown anymore. Not with my broken engagement and all my family drama. My mom owned a huge plot of land she bought with my dad from my grandparents when they got married. My father has been out of the picture for years, so when she decided to stop her treatments, she asked her siblings if they wanted to buy it from her. None of them did, so she signed the deed for the property over to me.
With all her medical bills, taxes, and the other bills that piled up, I put the land up for sale so bill collectors and the state wouldn’t be able to just take it out from under me. It’s the only choice I’ve made that I think my mom would have been disappointed about. I know my aunt and uncle hate me for that decision, but my hands were tied.
They’re still tied, tethered to the land my mom grew up on. Tied to the memory of her waxing on about how she wanted my kids to someday run through the fields of wildflowers just like I had, and she did before me. A dream that is only nostalgic because the dream was hers.
It’s still for sale now. No one seems to want a house and land in Wyoming, not even the people who are mad I’m not keeping it. I don’t blame them; I don’t know if I’d keep it, even if I had the choice, if I’m being honest.
“Have you ever heard the story of the Star Thrower?” Roman asks, dragging me from my thoughts as he squats next to me.
“No.” I blink at him in surprise. He hasn’t been one to tell me much of anything, much less a story, and I find myself hanging on his every word as he starts to speak.
“One day, an old man who used to write by the sea went out for a walk on the beach after a storm and saw thousands of sea stars washed up on the shore overnight. Down the beach, he saw a kid, and when he got closer, he realized the boy was tossing the sea stars back into the ocean one at a time, over and over. The old man asked him what he was doing, and he told him, ‘I’m throwing them back into the ocean before the sun gets too hot and they die.’ The old man told him, ‘There are thousands of sea stars. You’re never going to make a difference.’ The boy picked up one more star and threw it into the water, then looked at the old man, telling him, ‘I made a difference to that one.’”
“Are you the old man or the kid in that story?” I ask him quietly, and he moves his gaze to mine.
“The old man.”
5
ELORA
45°52′55″N 123°57′34″W
Lying in the sand with my eyes on the stars above me and my hand wrapped around a bottle of Rosé, I listen to a song playing through the stereo someone brought with them to the beach. Country music is not normally my thing, but the lyrics about a guy’s obsession with no one touching his truck are catchy enough to remember after one round of the chorus. I lean up on my elbow and lift the bottle to take a sip of wine, spilling some down my chin and chest when a figure appears like a shadow, startling me.