Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Ada wore more of a corseted dress. Sexy and forbidden. This is just …” I look down at the tent dress “…anti-sexy. A sister-wife vibe.”
There’s so much exhaustion in his eyes. He tries to smile but fails at infusing any believability into it.
“Tell me about her,” I say softly.
A tiny worry line creases along the bridge of his nose. “Which her?”
I pull up the dress skirt and kneel on the opposite side of the bed, fiddling with the tag on the sleeve. I'd make another sister-wife reference if he weren’t so tortured already. “Just…” I risk a glance at him “…tell me about the women in your life.”
Jack closes his laptop, sets it aside, and rests his hands on the edge of the bed with his head bowed. “I shouldn’t trust you or anyone at this point.”
“But you do because I’m here. I’m in a dingy motel room with you and don’t know your last name. I don’t know why you kill people. I have every reason to leave. To run. Yet … I’m here because you haunt me with everything you’ve never said. If I trust you, a stranger, with my life, don’t you think you can trust me with yours?”
After a few breaths, Jack’s head bobs in a barely detectable nod. “I have a twin sister.”
My heart skips on a silent gasp just as chills course along my skin in all directions. It’s not possible that this man’s path has crossed mine.
“We’ve been to hell and back too many times to count. She’s the only person I trust completely. I trust her with my life.”
There’s no more blinking back the tears. I let them fall. What if John would have trusted me with his life? Would I have failed him? Did I fail him by not being there for Steven? Somewhere along the way, should I have been the one to convince Steven that no girl’s—no person’s—opinion matters more than his right to feel worthy of love? Of life?
“My wife…” Jack continues, “…took everything bad inside of me and made it good. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her—except let her go. Even when I knew it was the only way to truly love her,” he shakes his bowed head, “I just really wanted to have a chance at that kind of love. That kind of life.”
When he doesn’t continue, I struggle to find the right words. How did she die? Am I allowed to ask him that? Just when I find the courage to do just that, he continues.
“We have a daughter.”
I swallow hard because I think I’ve known he has a family. The eyes never lie.
“I raised her alone. She has her mother’s heart, passion, and ability to forgive the unforgivable.” He lifts his head and stares out the crack in the curtains. “But she’s me too.” The hint of a smile touches his lips. “She’s fierce and unrelenting. She’s stubborn. Too smart for her own good.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “And I failed her. I didn’t protect her mom. I let my guard down. I showed vulnerability when the enemy showed patience.” He rubs his temples. “So I have to be patient too. And it’s unfathomably hard because I miss my life.”
I don’t know if I have the emotional capacity to formulate a response. He’s told me so much, yet … nothing at all. I feel him. But without clarity, I cannot understand him. Two feet are between us, yet I don’t know how to bridge the divide. Jack’s words carry an intimacy that feels almost sacred. He holds his life and memories in a guarded, impenetrable space. I think it’s so guarded because he feels the fragility of those memories.
I understand.
My memories of John, Lynn, and Steven feel defenseless and I am the soldier tasked to keep them alive in some small way. Humans are a culmination of the love we share. If I let the memories die, I think I will die too.
“I was standing in line,” I say, clearing the emotion from my throat, “at a CVS.” I laugh through a few residual tears. “And the person in front of me was making small talk with the young man at the cash register. She said, ‘Can you believe it’s already the last day of November?’ November thirtieth. My birthday. John’s birthday. I don’t acknowledge that day. And I’ve asked my parents never to acknowledge that day again. The mind instinctively tries to protect us. It’s easy to let it block memories. Self-preservation is a good thing.
“But then, some overly chatty woman at a fucking CVS had to kick through the patched hole in my heart. And I just … started crying.” I run my hands through my hair and blow out a shaky breath. “It was a hemorrhaging pain that wouldn’t stop. And a kind man behind me rested his hand on my shoulder—such a simple gesture. I didn’t look back. I just grabbed his hand for dear life, so afraid that he would let go and I would feel the full weight of reality. The avalanche of grief, the suffocating, unbearable loneliness that I was half dead.”