Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“Can I get a popsicle?” Emerson asks me.
“Sure.”
“I want a purple one.”
She skips up to the concession stand, her curly ponytail bouncing behind her.
I can’t forget the look on Abby’s face when she saw me with Emerson. It wasn’t the disdainful expression of a woman who dislikes children. She was crushed. For some reason, it caused her great pain, and I hate that I unknowingly did that to her.
A stab of guilt hits me. I should’ve told her about the kids. But she was adamant about not exchanging personal information. And until the night we went to the pizza place and I got the call about Cora’s injury, we were only friends with benefits. Minus the friends part, really.
There’s still a lot I don’t know about Abby. But I can’t get to know her if she keeps shutting me out.
I pay for Emerson’s popsicle and my water. As we turn to leave the concession stand, someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Hey, Luca, how’s it going?”
It’s John, Henry’s husband from the Muffins with Moms thing at school. We’ve hung out with them and their kids a couple times, and they’re a great family.
“Hey, it’s good. How are you?”
“Sweaty.” He grins. “These Chicago summers are no joke.”
“Yeah, for sure. You guys here watching a game?”
“We’re over on Diamond Four.” He looks around. “Is Jack here? He’s welcome to come play with Carter if he wants.”
“He’s playing at a neighbor’s house, but thanks.”
It’s John’s turn at the concession window, so I say, “Hey, great seeing you, man. I’m gonna text about a cookout at my place in a couple weeks.”
“Sounds good. Enjoy the game.”
“You too.”
I go back to my chair and resume watching the game, trying not to get distracted by thoughts of Abby. I can’t stop seeing her face in my mind, her blue eyes welling with tears as she looked at me and Emerson.
She’s guarded. I’ve known that from the beginning, and I assumed it was because of past hurt. But what I saw in her expression that day went beyond hurt. It was devastation.
It would be easy to just move on; I could have a casual sex arrangement with another, less complicated woman. But I don’t want that.
I want to know what’s going on with Abby. I’m not giving up what we have—and what we could have—without a fight.
Chapter Seventeen
Abby
Flames shoot high into the sky, their crackle drowned out by the sound of screaming. It’s me. I’m on my knees on the paved road, my wail a plea for help. I try to move, but I’m rooted in place. I can’t even crawl. My fingers claw against the surface of the road, seeking traction. The crunch of my fingernails and burning of my skin scraping off doesn’t even register.
I’m desperate. Every cell in my body cries out to get to the wrecked shell of a vehicle on the highway. Nothing else matters. I’m paralyzed, though, as I am every time I relive this nightmare.
I wasn’t there that night. I didn’t see the accident or the wreckage. But my mind has recreated the horror for me in vivid detail. There wasn’t a fire after the semi struck the sedan my husband was driving. My subconscious added that part. Every time, I see the mangled car, aflame, with Tim’s unconscious body lying beside it.
I want to do something. I scream for help to come, for him to wake up, for time to reverse. But the nightmare is just as merciless as the reality was.
And just when I sink into a helpless heap on the side of the road in my dream, limp and useless, I look at the shell of a car and once again relive the part of this nightmare that makes me wish I was inside that burning vehicle. A pair of chubby arms reaches out of the car for me and a tiny voice cries out a single word.
“Mama.”
* * *
I jolt in my sleep, the dream waking me up in an instant. My heart is racing; my nightshirt is damp with sweat.
Of course, I had to have the worst of the nightmares. The one I’ve had to schedule emergency therapy sessions after having.
Sometimes survival is just too much. There haven’t been any days, or weeks, or months like this in more than a year, but I’m currently on Day Four of hiding from life in my darkened bedroom.
Sleep is a double-edged sword during times like this. It helps curb the anxiety significantly, but it also brings forth brutal nightmares. I put in my ear buds and turn on the relaxing meditation app that helps ease me back down at times like this.
As far as my office knows, I’m on a spur of the moment vacation. I told Anthony to reschedule everything for a week and handle what he could in my absence. By the time I got back from Chicago, I knew I’d have to take some time away to regroup.