Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“She will,” Dr. Circe promised before she changed the subject, detailing what the remaining weeks of therapy would bring. I hadn’t quite made peace with the fact that I was going to have to talk about Will’s death in depth next week, but I knew I had to try. I had to beat against the instinct to withdraw and find whatever spark of light in me still lived on.
We were just about ready to stop for the day when Sam held up her finger.
“One thing,” she said to Dr. Circe and then shifted to face me. “I need you to know that you’re still you. The things that make you amazing haven’t changed, Morgan. You’re still incredibly brave, and if you don’t feel it, just look at what you’re doing now. This takes incredible courage. Look at how you saved Finley the other day. You’re still the friend who puts others first—”
“Like making you stay here for the next thirteen weeks while I try to get my shit together?” I teased with a watery voice.
“Stop it. You took me in when I had nowhere else to go. You never judged me for my choices, and you still don’t. Your grief for Will is just as deep as your love, and that’s not something to be ashamed of. I’m so damned proud to be your friend.”
She yanked me against her in an awkward over-the-chair-arm hug, and I felt twin tears escape. She might be proud of me now, but I knew the worst was yet to come. I’d avoided the worst of the pain for the last two years, and that came with a price.
Chapter Eight
Morgan
Lean on our friends, Morgan. God knows you’ve let them lean on you.
“So where are we at?” I asked Steve, handing him a cup of coffee as he stood at my kitchen counter. Longest two and a half weeks ever, but we were back in my house.
“Thank you.” He took a sip and then flipped through his binder. “Okay, the new concrete pilings are in place for the deck, and the support ones for the foundation set perfectly, we released the jacks, and your house is still standing, which is good since you moved back in three days ago.”
“Considering you told me there was every chance we’d have a major issue during that process, I consider that a victory.” I raised my glass, and he grinned.
“Me, too. Your head looks way better, by the way.” He motioned to where my cuts were just little pink lines on my forehead. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Stop. You’ve told me at least twice a day since it happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Still. I grew up with Claire, and just thinking about what could have happened…” He shook his head.
“You grew up with Fin’s mom?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “There wasn’t a guy in school that wasn’t half in love with her, and I guess that didn’t change in college, seeing how Jax is still waiting around for her to come back. Guy hasn’t had a serious relationship since she left. Anyway, I’m really sorry it happened.”
Apparently, oversharing was a bad habit in every southern town.
“I’m just sad that the weathervane’s broken. Seems a shame to lose something that’s been with the house so long.”
“Even if it tried to murder you?”
“Well, stronger things have tried and failed.” I shrugged. “How about this monstrosity?” I pointed to the very large, very visible piling that now ran from the roof through the garage level and into the sand below. Granted, it was a great addition for anyone considering exotic dancing for a living, but I wasn’t a huge fan of the eyesore or the hole they’d ripped in every story of my house during installation. The five-thousand-dollar investment had been driven straight through the master bedroom, not that I’d even fathomed starting that chunk of the remodel.
“It set well, and— Oh, you’re talking cosmetics, aren’t you?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“We’ll hide it as well as we can once we start the interior portion of the remodel.” He flipped to the page I despised. “You’re already at a little over fifty thousand.”
Ouch. Not that I hadn’t known I was racking up the charges. I’d signed enough checks, but Lord, that was a punch to the belly—or, rather, the wallet.
“Okay, and that’s for the new roof, the foundations on both the house and the boathouse”—I gestured to the steel pole—“waterproofing the garage level…”
“As much as possible,” Steve repeated. “If that ocean comes up, there’s nothing we can do to keep the water out of that garage. The house is built for water to flow right under it. The boathouse is another story.”
“Right. I understand.” Nausea crept up my throat at the thought of Will’s truck being swallowed by flood waters. “And next?”
“All of the windows have been purchased. I have them stored. Also, the storm shutters and lumber for the new decks.”