Without a word, he turned and went back up to the house in just his socks. Weird how he hadn’t noticed those fucking shells on his way out here. He’d have to pick them off the cotton before putting on his boots. Every step, each crunch was like walking over his dead, hollow soul. Over and over again.
After putting on his shoes, he waited for a while, inside this house that smelled so strongly of home now. Fifteen minutes passed, and he understood. She was done with him.
They were done.
Footsteps heavy, Clay made his way outside to his truck, which was still full of shit from the hardware store—materials for her house. He should unload it all, leave it here for whoever she found to finish the job, but he didn’t have the courage.
He drove, blindly, winding up outside the ABC store, where he bought a bottle of vodka, taking his first swig before he’d left the parking lot. His course had been set for the motel, or maybe just to leave town or something, but instead he found his truck climbing—up, up, to that overlook that kept drawing him back.
At the top, he backed up almost to the edge and sat on the tailgate, looking out over everything—over nothing.
It was dark, bats swooping above, fireflies sparking up the night. Those things that had been magic not so long ago were ugly now.
He pulled back more vodka, three or four big, long sips. The way he used to drink juice as a kid, racing his sister to the bottoms of their glasses. He’d always won those stupid contests.
He tried his best to feel betrayed, but… Who the hell could blame her? He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.
It wasn’t like she’d taken advantage of him. She’d been as messed up through the whole thing as he. Her perfect house, her homey life not a reflection of who she was, but of her absolution. Christ, they were screwed.
The bugs and bats and even the twinkling lights of Blackwood below made him think of her face, her voice so clogged with pain, the way she’d sat in that big T-shirt…how she’d hunched into his body and made him think he could protect her, make it better. He couldn’t help picturing her pain.
She’d had a lot to lose by taking up with him, from the beginning. It had been a huge risk for her, being with a patient. Being with someone like him.
Jesus, he wondered, when was the last time someone took a risk for me?
I’m the one who risks. I risked everything.
For revenge.
The word should have felt noble. Instead, it felt small.
* * *
Sleep didn’t come easily to George. She wished, more than anything, that she could have a long, hard cry, but tears remained elusive. Though she managed to close her eyes and lose herself in slumber, she awoke after less than an hour, almost expecting Clay to be there, waiting for her, needing her. Instead, she slept and woke, slept and woke, finally escaping to the bathroom only to face a puffy, sallow version of herself in the mirror—one she didn’t have much respect for.
Being alone hadn’t been what she’d really wanted. But how could you ask a man to stay and hold you after you’d talked about the other man in your life? The one whose baby you planned on having? She couldn’t do that to Clay. She couldn’t lead him on when everything else in her life was focused on Tom and the guilt of what she’d so easily given up. Losing Tom and trying to get him back. Sleeping with that stupid bill under her pillow for all those months, like a lost piece of him, suddenly found. A second chance. No—a third.
Rather than go back to bed, she decided to get up, call it a night, maybe head into the office early. Under the shower, she took inventory of the aches and pains she’d acquired in unfamiliar places—her lower back, her neck, her thighs…between her legs. With those reminders, it was impossible not to think about Clay and what they’d done together.
The way he’d made her feel.
And how do you think you made him feel, sending him away like that?
Horrible, she imagined, her words a harrowing echo come to haunt her over and over as she tried to sleep.
Alone, she’d said. I’m sorry. Alone… I’m sorry. Too bad it wasn’t what she wanted at all.
OceanofPDF.com
19
By the time George’s staff arrived at the clinic, she’d been there for hours, catching up on paperwork, reorganizing her office, and making pot after pot of fresh coffee until her hands shook like palsied leaves.
Finally, with the beginning of the official workday, she could lose herself in patient visits and forget about the mistakes she’d made last night. Mistakes and bad decisions. No wonder George kept away from people. As soon as she got involved, everything went to crap.
Self-sabotage?
At about lunchtime, she decided to stop feeling sorry for herself, to quit regretting things it was too late to change.
