Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
One thing at a time, one day at a time—that’s all I can do.
“I guess I have to tell him.” I grab my phone.
“You’re going to text him?” The tone of her voice is incredulous.
Well, yes. I’d planned to. I know it’s cold and distant, but that’s preferable to telling him to his face. I don’t want to give him the opportunity to say all the things he thinks I want to hear and hold me in his arms and act like this isn’t the worst thing that possibly could’ve happened.
I open the phone and realize a slight problem. “Shit. I threw his number away.”
“Then go over there and tell him.”
“He’s probably not there. He’s never home with his work schedule.” I’m making excuses, but I don’t care. My life has been turned upside down in a single day. I’m allowed.
I grab his note and a pen from the drawer of the coffee table, then scribble something underneath it, fold it, cross out my name, and put his there instead.
Holding it out to her, I say, “Can you deliver this next door?”
Mad takes it. “Damn, babe. You’re cold.”
Maybe.
But I didn’t stomp all over his childhood and leave scars that still haven’t healed.
Alec
A twenty-four-hour shift in the ER is one thing, but there’s nothing like a day at sea to really tire you out. Ironically, though, while the sea wears you down, it’s also bringing you back to life.
As we ride back from the harbor in Aidan’s old Ford pickup, it almost feels like we’ve traveled back in time fifteen years, back when we had the world at our feet and were just waiting for our lives to begin.
Things were simpler, then.
But today was good.
I was almost able to put her out of my mind, but she was still there in the background, like a song that gets stuck in your head.
The lobstering trip brought back so many memories though. Good ones ones I’d long since forgotten. Even the hum of the boat motor, the smell of salt water in the air, the frigid ocean breeze on our faces—were enough to transport me away from my problems, if only for a few hours.
Back in the day, we used to go out on the Hutton family dinghy and check the traps at least once a week, once a day in the summertime. We’d wear nothing but jeans, rolled to the knees, letting the sun bake our backs and the wind burn our cheeks. We felt like hunter-gatherers of old, providing for our families, a lobster dinner fresh from the ocean. Sometimes we’d go and pluck clams from the shoreline too and have ourselves an old-fashioned clambake with drawn butter, corn on the cob, and Mrs. Hutton’s famous blueberry pie.
My parents came to it, once. Only once. I’d been so proud to show them what I could do, that I could bring home dinner. My father had taken one look at the spread and said, “You know, lobsters were once called poor man’s chicken. They used to serve it in prisons as punishment.”
He didn’t eat a single thing except the blueberry pie. Mostly he helped himself to what little bit of hard alcohol the Huttons had in the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t top shelf, but that didn’t matter. Ironically, I’d later learn that my father wasn’t top shelf either—he was just doing his damnedest to pretend to be.
I force that thought out of my head and concentrate on the moment. The radio’s blasting an old Third-Eye Blind tune. It’s still freezing, the ground covered with two feet of old snow that probably won’t melt for at least another month, but the days are longer and we can finally see the light at end of winter’s tunnel. Besides, we’re Maine boys, used to the cold, so we drive with the windows down, letting the glacial air blow through our hair.
The scent of fish and sea clings to our skin.
Some people might think it’s bad, but I love the smell—I’ve always associated it with freedom, youth, and the Huttons.
“We should go for a couple of beers?” I suggest, looking at the guys. “What do you say?”
Cooper shakes his head and speaks in a down east accent. “Got to get back to the fiancée, ayah. Abby’s expecting me to cook these bad boys up for dinner. She’s been riding my ass all month, wanting lobster, since I didn’t take her out for Valentine’s Day.”
Aidan nods. “That’s because you suck.”
Cooper doesn’t argue.
“But yeah, I’ve got to get home to the wife and kids, too” Aidan adds. “Sorry, man. We should do this again though. Soon.”
I don’t know why this disappoints the hell out of me. I guess because I used to be the one to bow out of our get-togethers early—usually for a girl. I just want this moment to go on as long as possible.