Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
His next words were so soft and choked that Truman wished he hadn’t been able to hear them. But he could. And he couldn’t unhear them.
“I don’t have anything left to give.”
And there it was. Ash didn’t want him to move here. He didn’t have the capacity for a relationship. He appreciated that Truman had helped the last few weeks, regretted catching feelings, and was now ameliorating the error.
Truman forced himself to stand up before he became rooted to the ground with misery.
“I understand,” he choked out. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
And then he darted for the door because in about two seconds an ocean of grief was going to drown him, and he couldn’t let Ash see that.
Chapter 25
Greta
“Kill me,” Carys groaned into Greta’s shoulder the next morning.
She was terribly hungover, and Greta felt awful for her.
“Want some water?”
Carys made a tiny sound in the affirmative, and Greta got her some water and two Tylenol, which she took gratefully.
“What can I do to help, baby? Want me to clean up? I could make breakfast?”
“No thanks,” Carys croaked. “Honestly, I just need to sleep today. Can I call you tonight?”
“Okay,” Greta said and dropped a kiss on Carys’ cheek.
She went home and got Horse for his morning walk. As they approached the coffee shop, one of the regular baristas, outside on a smoke break, waved at them. Inside, another chatted with Greta about a play she was in and gave her a postcard with the information on it.
“I’ll check it out,” Greta promised as she left with her coffee.
She and Horse continued on what had become their regular route. Familiar faces waved to them and Greta waved back. Other dog walkers smiled as they walked past. They stopped in a park, and Greta sat on her favorite bench to look at the flowers and people-watch.
I have a life here, she thought. I have a regular coffee shop. I recognize people. I have a favorite bench. The people at the co-op recognize me. I exist here.
Greta imagined herself as a piece of charcoal, deepening the mark she left every time she walked the same route, said hello, was recognized as part of the fabric of this place. When she’d arrived, she had felt anonymous. It hadn’t felt bad or good, but she’d been aware that she was moving through the space without registering on it.
Now that she felt different, she was able to see that she’d felt that way for a lot of her life, even in the places she’d been far longer than New Orleans. Four years spent in Portland for college, and though she’d had friends, regular hangouts, people she recognized and who recognized her, it had all been tied up in a neat little package of impermanence. Whether because she knew her college years would come to an end or because they’d felt removed from the larger world, Greta didn’t know.
More confusing was realizing that she’d felt that way about Owl Island too. She’d lived there her whole life, except those four years, and she knew nearly everyone. They all knew her. She had a favorite coffee shop there, which was easy since there was only one. She had favorite benches and hangouts and said hello to people and was waved to, just like here.
But because she’d never chosen to be there, because she’d always been part of a family unit, she still felt like she hadn’t left a mark.
“I was invisible to myself,” she said.
Horse turned his massive head and looked up at her questioningly.
I want to do things. I want to leave an impression and be impressed upon. I want to choose. I want to be a singular person and not one limb of a family. I want to be myself, Greta thought.
“Horse, I want to do things.”
Horse nodded and bumped her knee with his head in clear support.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said, determined.
Two hours later, Greta had showered, changed, and let herself back into Eleventh House through the unlocked back door, patting Teacup on her way inside. There was no sign of any of its inhabitants having yet stirred, so Greta popped in her headphones, tuned into her new favorite podcast—ShadowCast, on Truman’s recommendation—and began to clean up the living room and kitchen.
In spite of Helen’s dire threats, there were still cups and plates on every surface. The garbage can was full, which likely explained it, so Greta gathered all the trash and took it outside. Then she started on the dishes. When those were done, it was nearing 2:00 p.m., and Carys still hadn’t emerged from her room, so Greta decided to make her some food. It was what her mom always did when one of them was sick. She said food helped, whether you were hungry or not.
Greta found eggs in the refrigerator and some brioche buns that had been used in one of the dishes the night before in the bread box and made Carys an egg sandwich with cheese, ketchup, and hot sauce, the way she liked it.