Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I shouldn’t be hearing this. I know I shouldn’t. I’m the last person who should be here, the absolute last. Guilt is already eating away at me like acid, but I can’t move. I won’t move. He’s baring his soul to his dead wife, and all I can do is listen, frozen in place, while my heart shatters in my chest.
If I slip away now, will he even notice? Does he know I’m here? God, I hate this—I feel like I’m spying, like I’m trespassing on something sacred, something private. But I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know. I just came here to see her.
I try to back away quietly, carefully. But when I turn to go, my toe catches on a damn tree root, and I stumble, yelping as I go down hard on both knees. My hands slam against the earth in front of me to catch my fall, dirt grinding into my palms. Damp dirt presses into my skin. For a heartbeat, all I can hear is my own harsh breathing and stifled groan.
“Shit.”
"Ruthie?" His voice cuts through the air, startled. Too close.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to push myself up. Sorry for what? Goddamn everything. For being here. For falling. For the sheer gravity of all of this.
I feel him before I see him, the familiar pull in my chest like the impending roll of thunder before a storm. The air shifts. Heavier. Charged.
The moment I try to shift my weight, pain slices up through my leg, bright and vicious. I stifle a cry. Fuck.
“Shit! What happened, Ruthie?”
Footsteps, a rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, kneeling next to me like he was always going to end up here, beside me, holding space for memories and ghosts and pain.
I don’t want to look up… I don’t want to see his face right now. Not when I’m like this, weak. Caught, like I was trespassing when visiting my own sister’s grave.
But the second I put weight on my ankle, pain lances through it like a blade. I lose my footing and stumble toward the ground again when his steady hand catches my elbow.
“I tripped. On the stupid tree root,” I whisper, ashamed and hurting, words tumbling from my lips. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Did you follow me?” Even though his tone is curious and not accusatory, I feel the need to defend myself.
“No!”
I shake my head so hard it makes me dizzy. “No, I just— I just came to see my sister. I wanted to… talk to her.”
It’s funny how different things trigger grief. A smell, a memory, the realization that she won’t pick up when you dial her number.
Knowing you’re in pain and you don’t have your big sister to make it better like you used to.
My voice wobbles. I try to hold back, try to hold on, but I can’t.
I break. I shatter. The tears come fast, unrelenting, as I buckle under the weight of everything I’m not saying out loud.
I can’t talk to her. I can’t see her. Neither can he. The tears fall with no warning. Fast. Hot. Angry.
I hate this.
I hate that she’s gone.
I hate that I feel so bereft and alone, like I’m flailing in a world of unknowns, and my only anchor has vanished.
And I hate that the only solid, real thing in a world of uncertainty is… him.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, clutching my side. “I just needed to talk to her.”
At first, he doesn’t reach for me. His breath is steady as I shudder, sobbing. But I can feel his restraint, the way it’s coiled like a leash pulled taut.
He’s near me, his eyes searching mine, his hand hovering as if ready to catch me if I stumble. His voice is warm and compassionate, making my tears fall harder. I’m gulping for air, swiping at my eyes, when he leans in and cups my face.
“And what would you tell her, baby? What do you need to talk about that was so urgent you came here? Tell me.”
I sniff and swallow, unable to look away. “You know exactly what I need to tell her.”
His eyes search mine, hopeful and pained. “I want to hear you say it.”
I blow out a breath. My voice wobbles. “I want to tell her that I’m falling in love with her husband. And I’m terrified he doesn’t feel the same way I do. I want to tell her that I’m sorry, that I—”
And then his mouth is on mine—urgent, desperate. And we’re both crying, tears mixing with the kiss, his hands tangled in my hair. “I know,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice cracked open like mine. “I know, baby.”
No one’s ever called me that before him, and I love it. I love it so much.
The kiss is brief, healing, as we both pull away and meet each other’s eyes.