I change course once more, my brows furrowing and my heart beating at a comfortingly calm pace, since a mystery is a million times better than grief. Curiosity is a kindness gifted from the universe. Crouching and extending my hand forward, I stroke what I know to be a USB stick.
Small. White. With a plastic outer and a steel tongue that slips into a computer.
I pick it up and turn it over in my palm. But wondering what’sonthe stick isn’t nearly as potent in my mind ashowit ended up on the floor. Because my imagination is like a dancer upon a stage, weaving a story and taking her rapt audience for a ride. Was he preparing to head out for the day when he hurriedly meant to put it in his pocket? Or maybe he took itoutof his pocket and meant to set it on the bedside table. That last morning, when he wasted my coffee and demanded breakfast at Dukes, he was smiling and happy. Playful and, as brothers often are, annoying with his flicking fingers.
He didn’t mention a need to work, nor did he ask to borrow my laptop so he could plug it in. He never hinted at wanting to show me something. And if I’m being entirely, objectively, grossly honest, I’m forced to admit he was just a guy, like so many others, and one who spent extensive amounts of time in a situation not conducive to dating.
There’s a chance I won’t like what I find if I go snooping. And that thought leaves me both laughing and wrinkling my nose—creeped out, but thankful for the opportunity tonotcry for him.
Standing tall, I fist the small fob in my palm and move around the bed again. Over the fluffy rug he never particularly liked. But I did, so he kept it. I draw a long breath and fill mylungs with what I know is his fading scent, then I step through the door and close it again at my back.
It’s time to take a shower and get ready for an evening spent with a man. A man who is both challenging and comforting. Sexy and a painful reminder of what I’m trying to forget. I wasn’t looking for someone to invest my time and energy into, and I sure as hell wasn’t thinking about it after losing my brother.
But Lincoln is here anyway, and trauma bond or something else, I like how I feel when he’s in the same room. Even when I’m crying. Even when everything hurts, and the world feels just a little too heavy.
I like that he lightens the load sometimes.
Moving into the bathroom and reaching around with my free hand to lower the zipper of my dress, I set the USB on the vanity and step out of my clothes, letting them fall to the floor and pool at my feet.
In the silence of an empty home, on a road where few others drive, and outside town so the sound of someone else’s lawnmower can’t encroach on my space, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in my bra and panties and a yellowing figure-eight bruise stamped against my ribs.
My gaze moves to the dog tag hanging from a steel chain, and beside it, the coin I can’t leave behind. The last true connection I have to my brother. The game of chance was always stacked against me. It’smycoin now, so I like to think the game—of life, I suppose—is stacked in my favor for as long as I have it.
It was Ryan’s last gift to me.
My inheritance, in a way.
Frowning, I pinch the coin between my fingers and slide the pad of my thumb along the rough edging. Flipping it over, I marvel at how oddly ugly it is, yet how wonderfully special it will always be.
I remember how crazy I felt drilling a hole through the silver. A fit of grief, perhaps. A refusal to think sensibly. Desecrating something so profoundly important to my brother, and still, confident he wouldn’t mind.
In this family, we don’t acquire wealth and treasures and massive stock portfolios when someone passes away. Instead, from my father to my brother, and then my brother to me, we receive a home and a silver coin.
And that… that’s more than enough for me.
Dragging the chain up and pulling it over my head, I hang it from the toothbrush hook I stuck to the mirror eons ago, then unhooking my bra and sliding my underwear down, I move to the shower and turn the taps on.
Time to soap and shave and do all those performative things some women secretly enjoy. Then I can dress and date, and for a couple of hours, at least, I can breathe.
13
LINCOLN
THIS IS GONNA BE… GREAT
Ipull into Nova’s driveway and stop in front of her house, kill the lights, and frown at her slim shadow moving within her living room, visible through the closed curtains.
That’s not safe.
Announcing to visitors you’re home and where, specifically, inside you are, is dangerous. And small-town living, even amongst residents you trust and have grown up with your whole life, isn’t a good enough excuse to make stupid mistakes.
I make a mental note to swing by town tomorrow and buy her a proper roll-down privacy screen. Which, when I really think about our situation, is so fucking ironic, I’m tempted to slam my skull against a speeding train and pray for a little sense before I get myself killed.
Shaking my head and snatching up the car keys, I open the door and slide out, patting my shirt down as nerves jump in my stomach and dread fills every other available section of space. My jaw aches from constant clenching, and my heart weeps as Ithink of Scarlett. I think of a man walking into her life just as I have Nova’s, and I feel the rage all over again.
Which makes me clench my jaw.
Which pisses me off.
