Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Some of my rope-rigging supplies were still in Holden’s bedroom, but I couldn’t bring myself to even open the door. Besides, it wasn’t like I’d need them anytime soon. Holden was it for me, and if I was going to stay and give up solo diving for anyone, it would be him, but I simply didn’t trust myself to make him happy. Sooner or later, he’d get tired of me, and then where would I be?
Right back here, arriving at Happy Village, which featured a series of interlocking loops of RV spots and a cheerful manager who might as well be a cousin of Bud’s right down to the heavy face and bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. I felt burned out inside, not empty but charred and full of soot and ash. The sign in the campground office over the manager proclaimed “Your home away from home” in a swirly font that made me nauseous.
Home. I’d never lived or stayed anywhere that had felt more like home than Holden’s house. When he said, “Let’s go home,” the words rang right and true. It would be so damn easy to get cozy there, let my guard down, forget that I didn’t want things like couch blankets and throw pillows and entanglements in my life.
Would it be so bad? a small voice inside my brain asked, and I had to gulp hard as the manager ran my debit card. Yes, yes, it would be that bad, and not just for me. I could weather the inevitable pain, but I’d already disappointed Holden. How many more times could I let him down? He deserved way more of a sure thing than me. What did I really have to offer him?
“You want to upgrade to cable and full hookups?” the manager asked, thick finger hovering above the tablet used to process payments. “There’s rain coming in again this week. Good time to catch up on some TV watching.”
“No thanks.” I winced like I’d been kicked in the ribs. TV time was for Holden, bad reality shows, side bets, boring documentaries that only he would sit through for me, time on the couch, a countdown to bedtime… No, I might never watch TV again.
But I regretted my refusal as soon as I was alone in my RV space, the rest of the day stretching out in front of me, no real plan other than trying not to think about Holden. Checking my email took a scant half-hour, enough time to type quick thank-you notes for a few more testimonials that had arrived, answer some questions from a recovery crew in Colorado, and open an email from the dive shop in Portland wanting to know if I’d be interested in teaching a few classes.
Nope. Me? In charge of a class? Holden I was not. I didn’t have a natural gift for teaching. No one wanted to learn advanced diving techniques from my cranky ass. And I dove alone. If I couldn’t handle a dive buddy, no way could I take responsibility for a whole class of newbies. You trust someone else to do it? Somewhere, Ev was laughing, pointing out the way I always checked gear myself, mine and everyone else’s, the way I refused to trust a job unless I did it myself.
It would tie you to the area. That voice was my own, and it struck terror right in my gut, making my nonexistent breakfast and black coffee slosh around. Did I seriously want another reason to outstay my welcome? What if Holden got tired of me before the classes ended? Not that I was going to take the offer, but still. I needed to jot a quick email declining the job, but instead, I shut my laptop and retreated to the bedroom area of the motorhome, restless and at loose ends.
You could always try… Nope. Not only had I left the rigging supplies behind, but kink would forever be associated with Holden, with the way he could command and coax me, the way he always checked me afterward like I was precious and needed protecting.
Why can’t you value your own safety the way I do? His question rang in my ears as I lay in the bed in the back of the RV, hands behind my head. What did he see that I couldn’t? I wasn’t all that—some muscles, a few cooking skills, a hard work ethic, and maybe some basic social graces if someone squinted. Kickass diver. Good with power tools. And…
“Now, Velma, mind the water hookup. Remember last time?” Voices filtered over from the campsite next to me. I looked out the small window on the side of my bed. Two older women had exited a large pickup towing a smaller trailer. The taller one with short gunmetal-gray hair struggled to unwind a hose for the water connection as a woman with a straw hat over a purple silk scarf hovered nearby.