The “work” part of the schedule had been limping along. Eight months ago she’d committed to submit a new Bible study, due to her publisher four months from now. She’d organized and added to her notes, fine-tuned her outline for the chapters she still had to write, conducted research, and crafted a writing timeline. She was making progress, but sans Oxy, the progress was like walking through waist-high snow.
The “hang out with others” part of the schedule had been the most helpful piece. She’d been spending time with one or both of her parents, Natasha, Natasha’s kids, or her Misty River friends. When laughing, shopping, playing with her niece and nephew, or talking over a meal, she felt closest to normal.
But then, back at the cottage afterward, she’d crash. She was spending every bit of energy she had resisting her intense cravings for Oxy and hauling her body through the daily schedule. By the time she completed it, she had nothing left. Certainly no enthusiasm for “life-giving hobbies.” Each night she collapsed into her love seat and attempted to concentrate on a romantic movie and not on her deep feelings of sorrow (and how effectively Oxy could wipe them away).
Some nights she did a better job of coexisting with the sorrow than other nights. On her good nights, she’d dance and sing along to her favorite rap and hip-hop songs as she dressed for bed. Nicki Minaj and Iggy Azalea could be trusted to lift her mood.
On her bad nights, like last night, she’d weep in the shower and wonder,Is depression the reward I get for sobriety?
Every day she prayed. And prayed. And continued to seek a peace she could not find.
She’d made it to day twenty-four and was committed to making it to day ninety. Then onward, through the rest of her life, without ever reverting to Oxy. She understood that Oxy was like an island that she mustneverrevisit.
Yet she didn’t exactly love the island she was currently living on, either. She longed to feel like herself again. She longed for the Oxy high that had softened the edges of everything.
As August dissolved toward mid-September, she’d begun texting Sam with questions about the upcoming Fall Fun Days. She’d been using his washing machine as loudly as possible, in hopes that he’d hear and respond by coming by to talk.
He hadn’t. Which meant that she hadn’t spoken to him face to face in a week and a half.
She couldn’t quite explain it, but she . . . missed him. And it wasn’t that she just missed general human interaction—her daily schedule mandated that happened.
There was just something about him. About Sam.
Approaching his house, she noted that his truck was nowhere in sight. Which meant he wasn’t at home. The realization demoralized her far more than it should have.
That’s just the lack of dopamine talking, Genevieve. Focus on the good.
This farm. This farm wasgood.
She paused between the farmhouse and the barn, which was set to the side and well back from the house.
The clapboard farmhouse wore a fresh coat of white paint. Its prominent covered porch ran along the front and sides of the first floor. Enormous pots of flowers stood between the downstairs windows, windows that were almost as large as the door. Dormer windows marked the upper floor.
Sam had painted the barn the same slate gray as the farmhouse shutters. As Genevieve made her way into the barn in search of gardening supplies, the scent of apples enveloped her. Her eyes adjusted to take in the hulking shapes of a tractor, a riding lawn mower, two ATVs, and numerous wooden bins. Every item within the barn appeared scrupulously clean. The gardening tools were all tidily arranged near the front of the space.
She supposed the termhappy chaoswould be lost on Sam. He didn’t seem the type to leave a dish towel on the floor or fling dirty clothes over chairs.
She selected gloves, a handheld spade, and a long shovel. Might these do the trick? Did she even want to attempt the kind of gardening that required more than this?
She walked down the sweep of land from the barn to the garden,eyes squinting toward the drive in search of Sam’s almond-colored Dodge Ram.
When sick, she’d been unaware of the galaxy beyond the walls of the cottage. Over the past week, she’d become a very nosy neighbor. Each time his truck rumbled by her cottage, she wondered where he was going, where he’d been, how he was doing. During the long stretches when no one drove that road she wondered why. Where were his friends? Business associates? Employees?
As far as she was aware, no one had used that road in the last week but her and Sam.
The evidence suggested that Sam was more alone,much more alone, than she’d realized. She’d asked him once if he got lonely, and he’d said no. However, she’d been living and working in the cottage for just a short time and already she comprehended the profound quiet of these acres.
Pushing up the sleeves on her baseball-style shirt, she knelt in an area of the garden that looked suitably weedy. Within ten seconds, she wished for some sort of pad to cushion her knees and protect her jeans. She had on her oldest, most casual pair. But even these couldn’t be considered work pants.
She weeded. Moved down the row. Weeded some more.
When she heard the rumble of a car’s engine, foolish hope jumped into her throat. She raised her head in time to see Sam’s truck through the tree line.
When he drew even with her, she waved with her whole arm. She probably looked like a stranded person flagging down a plane. But honestly, that’s kind of how she felt. If he kept on driving and didn’t stop, she’d chase him down, intercept him before he entered his house, and wring as much conversation from him as he’d allow.
He brought the truck to a stop, thank you, Jesus. Then made his way toward her position.
He’d donned his baseball cap and an extremely soft-looking navy shirt. The shirt wasn’t tight at all. Loose, even. However,the very thin fabric accentuated the easy strength of his torso. No doubt he’d pulled the shirt on without giving it a thought. He wasn’ttryingto look sexy, which was part of his appeal.
