Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“She would have liked it here,” I tell the ground, and he covers my mud-covered hands with his as I start to cry. Grabbing my wrist when thunder rumbles overhead, he pulls me up to stand, then, in one quick motion, I’m in his arms. I cling to him, my tears mixing with the rain that begins to pour down on us as he carries me back to the cabin.
When we reach the covered porch, he sits on one of the two rockers, and I curl up on his lap as the rain beats against the tin roof. I don’t know how long we sit there, but the mud on my hands turns to dust, and the rain stops long before my tears dry up.
Exhausted emotionally, I lift my head from his chest where I had been listening to his heartbeat in an even tempo against my ear.
“Ready to go inside?” he asks, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my throat raw from crying.
When we get into the cabin, I kick off my muddy shoes and he does the same before he leads me toward the bathroom. When we get inside the confined space, he flips on the sink and steps up behind me, circling me with his arms and taking my hands in his.
“Thank you.” I swallow down the tears building in the back of my throat as he washes the mud from our hands.
“For what?”
“For making this all bearable, for being here.”
“There is nowhere else I’d rather be, Elora.” His gaze meets mine in the mirror. “Not one fucking place.” With my chin wobbling, I nod and drop my eyes to his hands and mine.
When there isn’t a speck of dirt left on our hands, he urges me from the bathroom and passes me my pajamas out of my bag. I don’t bother going back to the bathroom to change. It seems pointless when he’s seen me at my most vulnerable. Turning my back to him, I get out of my damp clothes and put on my shorts and tank top. Once I’m dressed, I turn to face him, expecting to find him ready for bed. Instead, he has a sweatshirt on and one in his hand that he holds out to me.
“What are we doing?”
“Taking in the quiet one last time before we reach the noise of the city tomorrow.”
“I thought you didn’t like the quiet.” I let him help me put on his sweatshirt that is so big it reaches me mid-thigh.
“I don’t, but I think I might miss it when it’s gone.” He leads me to the front door and out to the deck. Walking to the steps, he sits on the top one, and I take a seat next to him. With the storm now gone and the moon nothing but a sliver in the sky, the stars seem abnormally bright.
“I never noticed the stars before leaving New York.”
“You didn’t?”
“I never took the time to look up.”
“I don’t think I did either, now that you say it.” I lean into his side, and he wraps his arm around me.
“I think we all take them for granted because there is no risk of them fading away before we have the time to look up and appreciate them. Unlike so many other things, we know they’re there and aren’t going anywhere.”
“Yeah.” I drag in a breath and rest my head on his shoulder. “But I think I’m going to stop to appreciate them a little more often.”
“Me too,” he says quietly, tucking me more firmly against his side.
12
ELORA
40.8021° N, 124.1637° W
With the bag of Cheetos I opened minutes ago on my lap and one of the podcasts I like listening to playing through the speakers, I watch water begin to splash against the windshield. It’s not actually raining; it’s more of a mist at this point, but soon, we won’t be able to see the road. At least not clearly.
“Roman.”
“Yeah?” he mutters, switching lanes to pass a semi-truck.
“Uh… I think we need to stop,” I whisper, and he glances over at me, then down at the extra large iced coffee I ordered from the gas station we stopped at not long ago.
Smiling, he shakes his head. “I told you not to get that much coffee.”
I rub my lips together as the mist becomes tiny beads of water that begin to cover the windshield. “It’s not that. It’s the wipers.”
“The wipers?”
“They don’t work.” He looks over at me again, this time frowning. Focusing back on the road, he flips up the lever for the wipers. They engage… but only enough to clear about five inches from the bottom of the windshield.
“The wipers don’t work,” he informs me.
“That’s what I just said.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “They were like that when I bought the van.”