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I swallow, the wine seeming to sour in my stomach. I wish I’d made it last longer.
He stands, lifting the tray from the floor, and exits the room. Moments later, he returns carrying a stack of my books. He tosses them onto the bed. “Here.”
I gesture toward them as if they were garbage. That’s what they feel like most days. I don’t want anything to do with the woman who wrote these books. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
I don’t want to touch them or think about them. They’re littered with too many painful memories. The book I was writing when Liam went to kindergarten. The book whose signing caused me to miss his championship soccer game. The books I read aloud to Declan as I wrote them, quizzing him endlessly about a character’s believability and his guesses on the plot twists. I don’t want to relive any of that. I can’t. I won’t survive it.
“Find your inspiration again.”
With that, he’s out of the room, and I hear the faint click of the lock.
Once again, I’m alone.
CHAPTEREIGHT
For a while, I simply stare at the haphazard pile of books at the end of the bed. I want to kick them to the floor, but I’m afraid of doing anything that might damage them for his sake.
It strikes me as funny. They’re my words. Stories that once existed in my head alone, yet he cares about them more than I do. At least, more than I do now. Once you’ve lost the two people who matter most to you in the world, no other loss or pain can compare.
It’s why I’m struggling to write now. Either I write something truly horrific, something that feels worthy of the grief and shock and loss I’ve experienced, or I write watered-down garbage that will only hurt, anger, or otherwise cause pain to the readers who’ve experienced no true loss of their own.
The readers who don’t know what true pain is.
Both options feel cheap.
Hesitantly, I pick up my debut novel and run a hand over the cover. I remember the day I first saw it. I was in a meeting for work when the email came in, and I’d gasped so loudly that everyone at the table turned to look at me. My district manager knew about the book deal and was thankfully understanding of my excitement, but I had to leave and call Declan right away.
When I came home, he had a bottle of wine and takeout from my favorite restaurant waiting for me. I’ll never forget the way his arms wrapped around my waist and how he twirled me around the room, saying over and over again how proud he was.
I couldn’t have written a better reaction for him. It was everything.
Hewas everything.
I open the cover and read the dedication, tears brimming my eyes.
To Declan, my first reader, my greatest love, and my biggest supporter—
Thank you for being here. Thank you for being mine.
It hurts. It all just hurts.
I turn the page to chapter one, knowing all the hope that went into this page. It radiates it for me—the hope, the pure joy, the promise of things to come. When I first wrote these words, I had no idea what my life would become. I had no idea if any of this would work out or if I’d even ever finish the book. It was simply a dream. A story in my head and the belief of the man that I loved more than life behind me.
In those days, it was just us, and we were just trying to make it happen. Every day after work, after Liam was down for the night, I’d sit in the makeshift office we’d set up in the corner of the living room and tell myself a story, hoping one day someone else might read it.
Now, I hold in my hand the proof that they did. The proof that my dream came true.
And look where it got me.
I’d trade all of this to have them back. Every second, every ounce of happiness, if it would bring them back to me.
Slowly, unwillingly, I begin to read.
* * *
I’ve reachedchapter thirteen by the time the door opens again, and he appears with more food. This time, it’s a turkey sandwich and a handful of cherry tomatoes and sliced cucumbers. He sets it down on the dresser, regarding the book in my hand with a smug grin as he gathers my dirty clothes from the floor. I hate that I’m wearing anything that belongs to him, but I can’t deny how good it feels to have changed out of my outfit and into something comfortable. I’m scared to ask what he’ll do with the clothes he’s taking from me, though I’m nearly positive I’ll never see them again.
“You’re reading.”
