I chuckled.
“I know, gross, but I slept, Cage. I really slept. I didn’t crash into my normal wall of exhaustion. I drifted into peace. So while I’ll probably end up with skin cancer in a few years, I don’t regret it. When the blisters heal and the burn fades, I’ll still have the memory of beautiful, serene sleep.”
“I know you’re always awake when I fall asleep, and you’ve said you have trouble sleeping and even some nightmares, but I had no idea just how bad it is for you.”
She shrugged. “To explain it to you, I’d have to share my past, and my past can’t be completely separated from yours—from Jillian Knight—so that’s why you don’t know.”
Total bastard. How could I claim to love her and notreallyknow her?
“It’s late. You should sleep and I’m guessing they’ll add something pretty awesome to your IV to help. Tomorrow we’ll go to your hotel and you’ll tell me your story—everything. Then we’ll fly to Tahoe for the holiday with your family.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Don’t cry.”
She blinked them away. “I’m not.”
I smiled as one escaped down her cheek.
“We’re flying to San Francisco before Tahoe. I need to see a guy about a leg.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Sleep, baby. Dream of me and know that I love you in a way that feels so much bigger than four little letters.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MEET THE JONESES
LAKE
Drugs.Yep, that’s all I needed to get some hardcore sleep. I woke to a tray in front of me with a cup of tea, a pink daisy, and a notecard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I smiled. Maybe it was the drugs or maybe it was just time, but in that moment, I remembered.
Cage looked down, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, my dad wasn’t a collector or any sort of packrat, but my parents were divorced. I’m his only child and my grandparents live in Portland, so I guess it’s my responsibility to decide what to do with everything. It’s all mine now, including the house. The funny part? I don’t want any of it.”
“My brother’s fiancée died a year ago. Her stuff still hangs in his closet. It’s just stuff, but there has to be a finality to get rid of it. I bet you’ll feel it when the last thing is removed from here and someone else buys the place. The ‘stuff’ is the epilogue. The story is over, but part of it lives on like a ghost for just a few more pages. What’s left at the end of the epilogue?”
“Nothing,” he replied.
I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes. “Depends on how you look at it.”
“And how would you look at it?”
“I’m not sure yet. My boyfriend died in the accident that took my leg. When I came out of my coma, the funeral was over, his parents had cleaned out his apartment, and some other person lived there. I turned the page after the final chapter only to find no epilogue. The author of my life sucker punched me.”
“Some would say the author of your life is God.”
“And I’d agree. But no amount of faith can truly comfort a grieving heart that can’t make sense of such tragedy. I didn’t lose my faith, but I did feel like God sucker punched me. No epilogue. But he’s God, so I’ll probably forgive him some day.”
Cage chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”
We flirted. I tried to pretend my brother wasn’t waiting for me in the car, but before I walked out the door, I made one last reference to the story of life.
“Cage?”
He turned. “Yes?”
