I release a loud exhale, my hands loosening their grip on the comforter as each muscle in my body relaxes, little by little.
It was just a dream.
A nightmare.
It wasn’t real.
Instinctively, I reach beneath me and rub a hand over my backside, the same spot that was whipped. Over and over again. Except it wasn’t me at all, was it? Of course, there’s no sign now of the blood-curdling pain I could have sworn I just experienced. No sign of the deadly rage boiling inside me. No sign of the little brother I could have sworn I loved like my own flesh and blood, who, in that moment, I would have given my own life for.
Breathe, I tell myself.
It’s over.
It’sday two in Ashwick, and I haven’t left the Inn at all. Forget the Inn, I haven’t left the bed except to pee. The mattress is lumpy and my back cramped, but I can’t get up. I’m tired. So tired, and the soreness from the accident still has my bones aching. I could barely sleep after the nightmare. Images of the little boy slumped in the corner of the room etched themselves into my brain, popping up every time I closed my eyes.
I know it wasn’t real, but telling myself that doesn’t make it feel any less so.
I keep the blanket over my face like a tent, taking comfort in the heavy solitude of darkness. The blanket is my wall, my shield. I don’t know what I’m trying to shield myself from more: another nightmare or the new, empty reality that is my life. My eyes squeeze tighter as I clutch the edge of the blanket firmer, trying to will myself back into a dreamless, numb sleep.
I know I’m being ridiculous and dramatic, refusing to face the world on my own when there are some people who’ve never had anyone to begin with. Some who’ve had to do this thing alone since they were little, maybe even since they were born. I’m grateful to have known what it’s like to be loved, to be cared for. And although the love between my parents may have ended in tragedy, in some ways I’m lucky to have witnessed what they had shared. The kind of love most people never get to see outside of romance novels.
Then again, the more I think of it, the more I wonder if maybe it was more of a curse than luck. Seeing the relentless passion between Mom and Dad—even if it was just through photographs, videos, and Dad’s stories—set ridiculously high expectations for me. Perhaps that’s part of the reason things didn’t work out between me and Bobby; I never could settle for anything less than what they had.
Almost an hour later, I’m still awake, unable to fall back into any sort of blissful ignorance. It’s torture. There’s a grandfather clock ticking away somewhere, each second droning on and echoing in my eardrums. I kick the blanket off and stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I rinse my mouth and set the toothbrush down, then splash cold water on my face.
My reflection reveals deep circles beneath dark brown eyes, making them seem more sunken than usual, and my hair is a tangled mess. I hardly even recognize myself right now. Hardly even know how to feel. Should I still be grieving?AmI still grieving? How is a grieving person supposed to act? Honestly, I have no clue, but something tells me selling the house of the deceased and running off to the middle of nowhere isn’t the best start.
What am I even doing?
I don’t know if Grams is watching, but right now, I actually hope she’s not. It would pain her to see me like this, such a wreck. The thought of her reaction makes me close my eyes in guilt. Grams always had it together, a woman of routine and purpose, and there was hardly a day that either of us stayed in bed like this.
“Get it together, Lou.” It’s time to be a mature adult.
It’s just a pair of fitted jeans with a white knit sweater, but it feels good, pretending I have something to get ready for again. In a way, I do have something to look forward to, getting to see the shops Grams saw, walk the streets she walked on. Mom, too, even if she wasn’t here for long.
I brush the tangles out of my hair until the light brown strands are smooth and straight, falling to the middle of my back. I finish off by slipping on my new pair of winter boots and tucking Jamie’s postcard into my pocket, along with my wallet and room key, then look back at the room in longing. The bed and nightstand are almost buried in day-old snacks—crackers, Cup Noodles, potato chips—and the rest of the place isn’t much better.
Yet I’m finding it difficult to leave.
Muffled voices from the hall seep into my room, mixed with footsteps trailing down the stairwell. People. Civilization. Strangers. I curl my fingers around the doorknob. I can fool them for a few moments; act like my world has not fallen apart, like I didn’t come back from the dead a few short days ago, like I’m not having vivid nightmares, like I’m not mentally unstable.
Hopefully.
Chapter 4
Itwistthe knob and step into the hall, wishing the place had an elevator as I slowly make my way down the stairs. I amble past the front desk and am just about to shove the inn’s front door open when a soft voice calls out, “Oh, Miss Adaire!”
Turning, I see a petite girl standing behind the front desk. The same girl who checked me in when I arrived. She looks to be maybe nineteen or twenty, a couple years younger than me. Her smile is big and bright, her hair a sunny blonde, and I automatically know she’s one of those people who are always happy. Like she eats rainbows for breakfast and spends her evenings cuddling with puppies.
“Yes?”
“I have a new key for you.”
“A key . . .”
“Yes, ma’am, a replacement key. You got stuck with the one that gets jammed, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” I cross the room and pull the key from my pocket before sliding it across the counter to her.
