Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“I feel like I’m letting him down by not reading them.” It’s a vulnerable admission.
“You’re not letting him down,” she assures me. “Only yourself.”
That startles me, and she can see it on my face.
Harlow smiles. “If it helps, I think you’ll ultimately find solace in knowing your brother better. The journals are the way you can do that.”
“Did you read them?” I ask.
She shakes her head hard. “Never. Those were personal to him. I know he wrote in them religiously, and he specifically asked me to have you read them. But that’s all I know.”
“Then how can you know they’ll help me?” I ask, desperate for her to give me some truth that will make it easier to find the courage.
“Because while I don’t know what he wrote in those journals, Brooks talked about you so often, I know he wanted only the best for you. I know he loved you deeply. I know there’s nothing in those journals that can hurt you.”
Christ… that’s exactly what I was looking for. Some reassurance that I wasn’t getting ready to read something that could destroy me, but I’m still not sure if now is the time to delve into it.
When we reach the condo, we move silently up the stairs and come to my door first. Harlow pauses, her hands tucked in her coat pockets. “I’m glad you came to the meeting with me tonight.”
And even though this might open me up to pain—because tonight has opened a door with Harlow—I can’t help but admit, “I’m glad too.”
She smiles again, starts to turn away, then looks back as if having second thoughts about something. “Want to grab dinner or something? Watch a movie?”
Her request shocks me almost as much as her telling me she was going to an AA meeting. Is she asking me on an impromptu date? Is this just a friendly invite to lighten the remainder of the evening?
Are we expanding a friendship? Is this something more?
Admittedly, any of these options freak me out.
I toss my head toward my unit. “I’ve got a mid-morning practice, and I think I’m going to turn in early.”
Not a lie at all about the practice, but I don’t fall asleep on any given night until close to midnight.
Harlow smiles brightly, not in the least offended. “Well, that’s a standing neighborly invitation if you want some company. I know it’s hard starting out in a new place.”
So… it was just an attempt to expand friendship, which should relieve me, but instead I feel slightly disappointed. I have an overwhelming urge to grab her by the shoulders, haul her in, and kiss her.
The imagery of that is so real and so disconcerting, I step backward into the wall. Harlow stares at me, head slightly tipped as if I’m confounding her.
Hell, I’m confounding myself.
“Well… good night,” I say, and turn to unlock the door.
“Good night,” she says, and I hear her walk down the hall away from me.
Once in my condo, I lean against the jamb and let out a long breath. My heart is pounding, and I have no clue why.
I glance down the short hallway to the immediate left that leads to the master suite. Having been in Harlow’s condo the other day, I know her unit is the mirror of mine, and her room is just on the other side of the wall.
I also know that within this master suite are the journals detailing my brother’s life. The thought of reading them makes me slightly nauseated.
But something Harlow said tonight reverberates in my head.
We’re only as sick as our secrets.
Hiding truths and the stress and pain that come with it is not good for anyone. If I ignore Brooks’s secrets stored within those journals, am I perpetuating my own pain? Is that cost greater than the torment of ignorance?
All that is an unknown.
But what I do know is that I feel like I’m doing Brooks’s memory a disservice if I refuse to acknowledge those things. It would be as if Brooks showed up on my doorstep and told me he had secrets to share that might cause me distress.
Would I invite him in? Or would I ask him to leave?
The answer to that is so stupidly simple, I push off from the doorjamb and head to the master suite, determination fueling my strides.
This is only the second time I’ve been in this room since moving into the condo—the first time to peek inside and make the absolute decision I wasn’t going to sleep in here, and the second time when I checked the closet and found the box holding his journals. But I didn’t touch it.
Now I move directly to them, taking the white banker’s box down from a shelf and carrying it to the bed. I toss the lid to the floor and peer in at the contents.