Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
I’m at Tulsa’s car in a few short minutes, opening up the back hatch of her SUV. Another thing that’s pissed me off, she hasn’t touched much of her trust fund. Since she worked her ass off in high school academically to pay for her tuition, all she had to use from what the Williams left her was room and board, working part-time for extras in the way of food when money was set aside for anything else. Damn stubborn Williams pride running through her blood. Hell, she didn’t even touch her money to buy the new SUV I’m currently opening. One that Montgomery would wholeheartedly approve of, a Chevy Tahoe, black on black interior and exterior. I chuckle when I see the amount of shit she’s got packed inside the back, boxes stacked one on top of the other. Both the second and third row seats are down, and every square inch is filled.
“Some things never change.” Tulsa has everything labeled—clothes, books, toiletries. Nice and organized. Considering the weight of the first box, I’m going to get a different type of workout today besides climbing up and down ladders to work on a roof or the gym I have at my house. I go back and forth, bringing one box in after the other, propping the screen door open while doing so until all of them are in the house. Tulsa can always unpack them from here in the living room and carry what she needs up the stairs. She won’t ask for any help from me, preferring to do it all on her own.
Once the last box is off-loaded, I see her keys are on the counter. It doesn’t take me long to open the junk drawer and grab the notepad inside along with a pen. This way, when or if she wakes up, she will notice the boxes are in the house. Her vehicle, and the house will be locked up. I may have given her a new set of house keys, but I still have the other set.
Butterfly,
I hope you slept well. Don’t carry the boxes up the stairs. I’ll help you once I’m back from town with groceries.
Ledger
I walk out the door and turn around to lock it, knowing there’s a woman inside who’s still grieving the loss of her family and needing her to be safe.
5
TULSA ROSE
I wake up and swear the smell of Ledger is lingering in my brother’s room, but that can’t be. Ledger wouldn’t willingly come inside, not when I pushed him away for the second time in only the handful of times we’ve spoken since that fateful day. Okay, fine. We’ve yet to talk since I was a complete and total bitch to him. Who wishes someone else would take the place of their dead brother? That’s so wrong. And while I apologized in a two-page letter that was returned to me unopened, it was me who broke the line of communication in the first place. That still doesn’t explain why I’m smelling the cologne that embodies Ledger Sinclair. I blink away the sleep and roll over onto my back, which is another thing. Usually when I wake up beneath the blanket fort I make for myself, my whole body is covered up. That wasn’t the case and is probably why I’m waking up when I feel like I could have slept at least another hour.
My body protests the thought of getting up, so I take the time to stretch, arms going over my head, neck moving from side to side, my legs straightening, toes pointing, eyes closing, feeling that dizzying effect you get when you’ve held a pose too long, before I finally decide to get out of my brother’s bed. The scent of him has long since passed; it’s the feeling of comfort, of knowing that when I was having a rough day on the anniversary of one of our parents’ deaths, a boy breaking my heart, or school was kicking my ass in the math department, Mont would make it better. We’d hide away. I’d cry on his shoulder, and he’d make the pain go away, even if it was only for a moment.
“Time to get your lazy ass out of bed. You’ve got a truck to unpack, groceries to buy, and things to figure out, Tulsa Rose,” I tell the empty room before I flip to my side and move off the bed, taking the blanket with me. It might have been Montgomery’s favorite blanket, but it’s also mine, and there’s no way I’m going to stay in our family home without it in my room. I bundle the blanket up in a ball, smooth the comforter out, and walk toward the bedroom that’s always been mine. Mont offered me the master bedroom once everything settled down a couple of years after Dad had passed away. I didn’t want to leave my bedroom; it was perfect for me. Still is. The window seat Dad built with the bookshelves on either side is utter perfection to look out on a pretty day or starry night, and honestly, I’m not sure I’d ever move into the master bedroom anyways. Call it a superstition, but the last three people who lived in that room are no longer here.