“If I were a girl, I’d marry Sam,” Ben told her, “for his buttermilk pancakes alone.”
Ben had a point.
“By the way,” Sebastian said to Natasha, “you’re not going to make us play that old-fashioned card game—”
“Piquet,” Genevieve supplied.
“You’re not going to make us play piquet after dinner this time, are you?” Sebastian asked.
“Definitely not,” Natasha answered.
“Whew.”
“Tonight,” Natasha proclaimed resolutely, “I’m going to make you play whist.”
Sebastian
No one’s come to rescue us.
I can see morning sunlight through our wrecked windows. I tried to sleep on my arm as a pillow, but I have a migraine, and the floor’s hard and cold. Sirens woke me every time I dozed.
Even though it’s still mostly dark in here, I can make out the shine of Luke’s eyes, which are wide open. He’s hardly said anything since his phone’s battery ran out.
The other three—Ben and the girls—kept telling each other last night that someone will be coming for us soon. They’re so spoiled that they can’t imagine life without their parents to make everything easy for them.
I don’t have to imagine that life. I’ve lived it.
I’m like a broken toy nobody wants.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam’s life had gone down the toilet.
He’d worked so hard to build a life that meant something, that satisfied. He owned a restaurant, and he was the caretaker of Sugar Maple Farm, and he had God. That had almost been enough.
Then it had started to come apart.
And not just when Gen had kissed him four days ago. It had started to come apart the morning he’d found her sleeping in his guesthouse.
He’d continued to follow his daily work routine, yet he was forcing his body through the motions while chaos reigned in his brain. His muscles felt like they’d been beaten. His sleep and eating and purpose—all torn in some fundamental way. He didn’t know how to sew them back together.
What was he doing? What was the point if he was going to spend the rest of his days alone, doing the same things every morning, afternoon, and night? Over and over and over again.
When Eli had asked him at their basketball game earlier if he wanted to grab dinner, his first instinct had been to say no, and then go home and hole up as usual.
In the end, he’d said yes to Eli because eating dinner with a friend had to be better than eating another meal of doubt and regret.
He was sitting across from Eli at a booth inside The Junction, a dive bar that served the best fried chicken in northern Georgia. Crowds filled the establishment just about every night of theweek, and this Monday night was no exception. Locals came either for the inexpensive booze, the chicken, or the atmosphere, which wasn’t fancy but was authentic.
Red vinyl booths surrounded a scuffed wooden dance floor. Hits from the 1970s and ’80s stocked the jukebox. The curtains were red-and-white checked. The napkins, paper. The restaurant’s smell, down-home cooking.
He’d ordered the only menu item that gave a nod to dietary restrictions—gluten-free, dairy-free fried chicken. Sam’s chicken crackled as he took his first bite. In addition to the chicken, his large oval plate held mashed potatoes with brown gravy and a mound of shiny green beans.
He didn’t drink anymore, and he almost never ate fried food. But tonight he didn’t care. In fact, eating fried food suited his self-destructive mood. He might order two more helpings of chicken and consume it all in an effort to fill up his empty places.
A few yards from their table, an older couple slow-danced to the song “Wonderful Tonight.”
“What’s on your mind?” Eli asked. “I can tell something is.”
