Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Even though Anna had cast a bright light on the psyche of Hunter Delucia, I felt more in the dark about the man than ever. It was almost midnight when I grabbed my cell off the bedside table. My fingers hovered over Hunter’s name. Only nine on the West Coast—not too late to call him. If I did, he’d definitely put two and two together and know that Anna had called to tell me about last night. If I didn’t, I’d never be able to sleep.
Deciding to text, rather than call, I figured I’d crack the communication door open and he could choose to either talk to me or shut it in my face once again. After another ten minutes of deliberating over the right words to send, I went with simple.
Natalia: Thinking of you. Up to talk?
My pulse raced as I hit Send and waited for a response. Immediately the text showed as delivered. After another ten seconds, it changed from delivered to read. I held my breath when the dots started to bounce around. Anticipation throbbed in my veins as I waited for a response. After a few seconds, the dots stopped moving, and I let out an audible breath. I stayed frozen, staring at my screen and assuming the dots had stopped moving because he’d finished typing and the words were racing through the air on their way to my phone. I waited for them to arrive.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
A half hour.
An entire hour of waiting.
But the words never came.
It would’ve been easier to accept that he didn’t respond if my text had gone unopened, or if I’d never seen those dots jumping around as he considered writing back. Then I could’ve always wondered if he’d received my text—clung to a morsel of hope that was the case. But there was no wondering. Hunter had read my text and decided not to bother responding.
Chapter 33
— Hunter —
SEVEN YEARS AGO
“Come on, Jayce. Pick up the damn phone.” My leg bounced up and down as I counted the rings. After the fourth, it went to voicemail. I disconnected and immediately hit redial.
No answer again.
Something was off. I grabbed my laptop and the files I needed to work on and stopped at my boss’s office on the way out.
“I need to do research down at the building department,” I lied. “Be back in a few hours.”
In my car, I turned on some music in an attempt to relax for the thirty-minute drive to Jayce’s. But it did the exact opposite. Every song that came on, every mile I drove toward my brother’s house, intensified the shitty feeling I had.
Jayce had been depressed lately. I couldn’t blame him. He struggled to do simple things now—speaking and sitting up were hard work. Somehow, he managed to get himself into and out of bed each day, and he even walked around some still, but by the end of the day, he was exhausted and dependent on the wheelchair he despised. The involuntary jerking in his arms and shoulders had intensified so much that it woke him up at night, so he rarely slept more than an hour or two straight. Other than doctors’ appointments, he hadn’t left the house in months. Most of his days consisted of watching TV and waiting for the different visiting nurses to come by so he could shave or move to the yard for some scenery.
We tried to get him to move back in with Uncle Joe and Aunt Elizabeth or come live with me. But he refused, preferring to stay in his depressing rental house by himself, rather than be surrounded by family who wanted to help. I visited him a few nights a week after work, and so did our uncle, but not even that cheered him up anymore. I used to think the worst thing in the world was death. But these days, I was pretty sure sitting around waiting to die was much worse.
Still twenty minutes out, I hit redial on my cell as I drove. No fucking answer again. I’d been in a meeting when he called and left a message this morning, so my ringer was off. A sick feeling twisted in my gut as I hit Play to listen to the message he’d left again.
“Bro. (Quiet for ten seconds.)
“I was never mad about Summer. (A few deep breaths as he struggled to speak.)
“I just wanted to make sure you knew that. (Another long pause.)
“Love you, man.”
Huntington’s had affected his mind—the way he thought, the things he thought of. Manic ups and downs had developed in his personality. I’d read enough to know everything he was going through was normal, but something in his voicemail told me his message was more than just a random thought during a downswing. I hadn’t spoken to Summer in years. Even though I’d come clean to Jayce about my relationship with her, I’d ended things not long after he got out of the hospital. Why was he thinking about it now? It felt like he wanted to make sure I didn’t carry that weight with me after he was gone. I prayed I was wrong.