Page 3 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Because it’s friendly and drama-free.

Because we can go back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Because one night—even if it was the best night of my life—was all I could ever have.

I close the door, hear the click of the lock being engaged, and force my feet to carry myself off the porch, down the steps, along the path to the sidewalk.

Only then do I pause, look down at my hands.

My father’s ring glints in the moonlight.

Anger—no rage—tears through me and I wrench it off my finger, launch it into the shadows at the house.

Why did he have to die?

Why did he have to leave such a fucking mess behind?

Why—?

I stare at the spot where the ring should be and…

The rage fades and guilt slinks into its place.

Why did I do that?

“Fuck,” I whisper.

Then I do the only thing I can⁠—

I get the fuck out of there.

Two

Lainey

There are three things I know for certain:

Moving is hell.

Children are chaos incarnate.

And I should have never agreed to this on a deadline.

Crashes and laughter, thunks and conversations surround me on all sides…and I have no flipping idea where my laptop is.

Not that I’d be able to work with all of this noise.

I just…

I like to have my laptop within arm’s reach at all times.

Ben used to say it was My Precious, a la Gollum and The Lord of the Rings.

I used to counter that my entire life was on the hunk of metal, so he’d better be careful with it.

In reality it was our entire lives that were on the laptop—my books, my memories, my spreadsheets to track bills and expenses. Then to document my pregnancy, to keep track of my appointments (and after he was out of me, Ollie’s too). Eventually, it was edits and emails and reviewing contracts and publishing books and coming up with creative ways to market them. It was everything.

And more.