Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“Working,” he replies. “A lot.”
I knew that too. He’s buried himself in his career since I left him, while I’ve buried myself in loneliness. I smile, it’s awkward, but I have no words for him. What do you say to the man you jilted? To a man you know loved you? To a man who promised to hold you up through your turmoil? He deserved more than I could offer. It’s what I told myself to ease my guilt. Truth was, I had no energy to love. Still don’t. And I couldn’t marry a cop. I couldn’t commit myself to a man who worked for a cause I didn’t believe in anymore. “It was good to see you,” I say, turning and walking away.
“Beau, you don’t have your shopping,” Ollie calls.
I walk faster, away from him, away from the memories, away from my past.
“Beau!”
I make it to the door, to the fresh air, and drink in as much as I can, trying to keep the impending panic attack at bay.
“Beau.” Ollie appears in front of me, and I look up through my watery eyes. “Jesus, Beau,” he whispers, stepping into me, and before I know what’s happened, I’m in his arms sobbing relentlessly, the onslaught of memories, of guilt, of sorrow, all too much.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble mindlessly. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.” I should have apologized before. I should have found some strength through my self-pity to give Ollie the apologies he deserved.
“I forgave you long ago, Beau,” he whispers. “It’s time to forgive yourself. For everything.” He pulls away and holds me by the tops of my arms as I wipe at my soaked face. I don’t know where that came from. I haven’t cried for a long time; I’m all out of tears. “Come on.” He smiles, his thumb stroking under each eye. “Let’s get a coffee. Where’s your car?”
“She’s in the repair shop. I’m walking.”
His arm goes around my shoulders, and he leads me to his car. I don’t stop him. I probably should.
But I don’t.
He helps me in and drives, and I don’t question where. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, more peaceful. It’s only when Ollie pulls off a main street that I seem to wake up and realize where we’re heading.
Our apartment. The apartment we shared.
My heart starts beating double time.
“I know you don’t like busy spaces,” he says, pulling into the parking lot. “So I thought this would be better.”
I look at the door. The door I passed through millions of times. I see myself, coming and going, in uniform, dressed up, in my gym gear. Happy.
Gathering all the strength I can muster, I unclip my seatbelt and get out, forcing myself to face this. Because the alternative is to cause worry. To spike concerns. I’m stable. I’m okay.
I approach the apartment block slowly, hearing the jingle of Ollie’s keys. I step aside to let him pass, watching as he opens the door and gestures the way. I make it to the apartment and stare at the wood as he opens the door and the way for me. I swallow, bracing myself, and the moment I’m inside, my stomach starts twisting and rolling violently.
“I’ll make us coffee,” Ollie says, dropping his keys in the bowl on the table before heading to the kitchen. I stare at the bowl. Just one set of keys. Not two. Not my keys and his keys. Just his. I pass the living room and glance inside. I see Ollie and me curled up on the couch on one of our rare nights off together. I see Mom in the chair by the fireplace where she always sat when visiting. Oh God.
I shake my head and follow Ollie, entering the kitchen. It’s spotless. “Do you have a housekeeper?” I ask, lowering to a chair at the table. My eyes root to the faded red wine stain in the center from the glass that was knocked over during a passionate after-dinner moment. This table. We’ve eaten at it, laughed at it, done the deed on it.
He laughs as he prepares two cups of coffee. He doesn’t ask me how I like it. He wouldn’t have forgotten that. Is it terrible that I have forgotten how he takes his? Sugar? No sugar? Cream? No cream? Self-preservation has meant trying to eradicate everything from my past, limiting the amount of things to feel sorry about.
“No housekeeper.” He sets the mug on the table. The mug Mom bought me. The mug with a picture of Lara Croft on it.
“My mug,” I say, my heart clenching. Very Lara Croft. There’s a massive chip on the rim. This mug was the only thing that survived the explosion with minor injuries. Everything else? Ruined. Dead.
“Well, I didn’t want to throw it away, and you didn’t take anything when you left.” His words and tone aren’t accusing, it’s just Ollie being Ollie. Factual. “Maybe I thought you’d come back.” He shrugs and joins me at the table. “So how have you been?”