Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I skim the details. They started to divorce seven years ago, and the article cites it as a bitter, drawn-out one, contested by insane alimony demands. The article says they were part of her attempts to funnel his fortune into her newfound religion. It’s no different from what August told me, but hearing it described this way feels so cold and clinical, draining the reality and depth from it.
Never mind the loss.
Soon, she was dead, before anything was finalized. Not leaving him a widower, technically, but it definitely left him with some heavy things to carry.
Five years.
It’s only been five years, even if they officially split seven years ago.
But grief has no timeline.
When you have so much unresolved guilt, maybe you can handle a fling, a little pleasure, but someone prying at your feelings? Your heart? Trying to insinuate her way into your life like a spoiled child? Wanting to selfishly pry up those feelings you’ve held so close to your heart?
I close my eyes, curling over my phone as I press it to my chest.
I’ve been such an asshole.
Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I straighten as I look down at my phone and swipe to August’s contact.
You up? I text.
He’s probably buried in work, phone muted or even dead—
But my phone buzzes back.
August: Yes.
I stare down at the blinking cursor.
I don’t know how to say I’m sorry.
How to explain everything swirling in my head.
How to tell him I’ve been a jerk and that I shouldn’t have needed to look up that information to respect the clear lines he’s laid down, even if I’m not the only one who’s been blurring them again and again.
I don’t think I can just type it all out.
It makes me think too much of those cold, clinical words describing Charisma’s downward spiral.
Screw it.
I stand and stuff my feet into my slippers, then grab my long, fuzzy robe.
I’ll just tell him to his face.
It’s only eleven.
I can be there and back in an hour and a half. Say what I need to say, let him send me packing, and then go home and get a good night’s sleep before it’s back to wrangling this strange situation I’m in with Clara tomorrow.
I go flapping down the stairs in my robe and slippers.
Pants? Who needs them?
As I swing past the kitchen, though, Gran blinks up at me, looking up from rolling her dough into a lump for morning. Dusting her hands off, she leans out the kitchen door.
“Elle, dear? You’re going out this late?”
“Just running over to August’s,” I call back, belting my robe shut as I head for the door. “You know. Have to keep up the game.”
After picking up a damp rag and wiping her fingers off, Gran follows me.
“Is it just a game, love?” she asks, watching me with concern. “Or is he playing games with you?”
I stop with my hand on the doorknob and slowly let it fall, turning to face her with a smile.
I don’t know why I suddenly need to see August now, but it can wait a few more minutes when Grandma Jackie’s looking at me that way.
“He’s not. I promise you he’s not.”
“Good.” She reaches up to cup my cheek with damp fingers. “Be careful with your heart, dear. It’s a shiny thing, but enough dirt can dull its light.”
“Poetic, Gran.” Smiling, I lean into her touch. “Actually, I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’ll be a little careful.”
“And a lot reckless, because you live your life out loud, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.” Her eyes glitter with good humor. “I love you, my dearest granddaughter.”
“Love you so much, Gran.” I pull her into a hug, squeezing her tight before letting go. “If I’m lucky, I’ll drag him back here for breakfast in the morning.” I swipe her keys from the hook by the door. “I’m taking the Audi!” I call as I pull the door open and race outside.
“Drive safe!” drifts after me before she pulls the door shut, laughing.
I tuck myself behind the wheel and back out into the road, pointing the Audi toward Alki Beach and August’s house. Suddenly, I’m not in such a hurry, and not just because I’m going for my Safe Driver merit badge.
I still don’t know just what to say.
But since I’m on the way, I might as well go through with this crazy impulse.
I try practicing on the drive, muttering to myself beneath the flicker of golden streetlights. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not trying to come between you and, uh . . . Charisma’s ghost?” No—crap, that sounds dumb. Um. “I’m sorry I made too much out of casual sex? I know you don’t really like me, you’re just paying”—ah, crap. Now I sound like a hooker. Wait. Am I a hooker?
My reflection in the rearview mirror doesn’t answer.