Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73963 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73963 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I wait, but there’s nothing. Just silence.
“Does that mean you’re not okay with it?”
Nothing.
“Okay, then. Brad got married about a week ago. He married a nice woman that moved here a few years ago. I like her a lot.”
And so I spend the next hour, talking to my best friend in the cold, filling him in on my life, and the lives of everyone we know.
Just when I’m about to get up and leave, I hear footsteps behind me. I shift in my chair and glance back, surprised to see Willa standing there, her hands in her pockets and a bouquet of roses tucked under one arm.
“Hi.”
Chapter Three
~Willa~
“HE CAN HAVE CEREAL for breakfast, but don’t let him talk you into hot chocolate as well,” I inform my mom, who’s currently snuggling with my sleepy son on the couch.
“I’ve been watching my grandson for almost nine years,” she reminds me and kisses Alex’s head. “We’ll be fine.”
“Right.” I nod and rush to grab my purse and keys, but my keys aren’t in their usual spot.
I frown, glancing around.
“Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you seen my keys?”
I immediately curse under my breath as I stomp into the kitchen, bathroom, and my bedroom, looking around for them.
I hate today. Today is the worst day of the year. If I didn’t have a little boy to see to, I’d spend it under the covers.
But I do have a son, and I’m stronger than that.
Or, at least I tell myself I am.
“You had them when you drove the car,” Alex replies, making me smile. Why would I ask an almost nine-year-old if he’s seen my keys?
And why can’t I find them?
“Are they in your purse?” Mom asks.
I look through it, blowing out a breath when I don’t find them.
“Nope. They’re here somewhere.” I open the fridge because I did that once before when I was super tired, and Alex had the flu. But they’re not there. On a whim, I open the pantry, and…score! There they are. “Found them!”
“Where were they?”
“The pantry.” I walk back into the living room as I pull on my coat. “I don’t remember putting them there, but at least I found them.”
“Are you okay?” Mom asks, and I know it’s not about the keys.
“Yeah. I won’t be long.”
“Take all the time you need,” she says.
“See you in a bit, Bubba.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“Oh!” I rush back, poking my head into the living room. “He had a shower last night, so—”
“Willa, my love,” Mom interrupts me with a soft smile. “We’re fine.”
“Right.” I nod. “Thanks. See you later.”
I wave and walk out to my car in the garage. It’s been giving me trouble lately. I should replace it, but I just paid the sucker off, and I’m determined to get through two years payment-free, so I’ll make an appointment to have it checked out later this week.
The drive to town is uneventful. It’s a cold Sunday morning. The roads are clear of snow and not busy at all. Most people are either at church or still in bed.
Where I’d like to be.
I don’t know why I do this every year. Cary isn’t in that casket. I often feel him around me, and I talk to him all the time. He’s not at the cemetery.
Yet, I go. Every single year. I always take a bouquet of red roses. Some years, the snow is deep, and I have to uncover his headstone. But it’s been a dry year. Cold, but without a lot of snow.
I park my car along the small drive about a block away from where Cary is, zip up my coat and grab my gloves, and head out, crunching through the snow between the headstones, and see someone already at Cary’s grave.
It looks like he’s talking. He’s sitting in a red camping chair, bundled up in ski gear and a hat, but I’d know those shoulders anywhere.
Max.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Max was Cary’s best friend and was with him when he died.
Of course, he misses him.
I don’t want to startle him, but I also don’t want to hang back and be a creeper, so I keep walking closer, my boots crunching the hard snow. Max turns.
“Hi,” I say softly.
He raises a beer. “Come join us.”
I cock a brow and walk closer, noticing the beer at Max’s feet, and the open one on Cary’s headstone.
“I always wondered who brought the beer,” I say when I walk around Max and set the roses next to the brew. “I should have known.”
“Want one?” he asks.
“Actually, that sounds good. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
“That it is,” he says, pops the top on a bottle, and passes it to me. I take a swig, surprised that it feels good on my throat despite the bitter cold.
“Do you need a ride home?”
Max’s lips twitch the way they always did when he was particularly amused by me.