Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Harry Pawter.” I grimace as he pokes his coned head around the corner, bandages wrapped around two of his paws, making us twins.
Aaron appears just behind him, the lone, runty towhead in the dark-haired, brown-eyed Hays family. “The vet said to change the bandages daily. There’s an ointment on the kitchen counter. And he has to wear the cone as long as he refuses to leave the bandages alone.” He stuffs his hands into his back pockets.
“Thanks. What do I owe you?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’ve got it,” Zach relinquishes his first four words since leaving the hospital. He guides me to the sofa and helps me ease my ass onto it.
“Aaron, what do I owe you?” I repeat.
Aaron’s eyes widen, darting back and forth, signaling his disinterest in getting involved in my little financial squabble with Zach. “Welp. Feel better.”
“Traitor,” I grumble.
Aaron chuckles and pats Zach on the shoulder. “You’re a good man. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Good man. Yes, Zach is a good man. That might be an understatement.
“You are too. Thanks.” Zach gives a weak smile to his brother as he brushes past him.
When Aaron’s footsteps fade behind the closed front door, leaving us in silence, I try to stand.
“What are you doing?” Zach steps toward me, reaching for my arm.
“I’m going to the bedroom.”
“Oh.” He helps me get to my feet. “Good idea. You should rest.”
“Yeah,” I reply on a long sigh.
When I’m nestled in bed with Harry Cone Head Pawter, I close my eyes—anything to shield my guilty conscience from the toxic stress lining Zach's face.
The pain. It’s pure angst.
I did this. And I feel terrible.
As I listen to the descent of his steps, I speak. It’s just too much to keep inside. “I’m moving out.”
Silence.
More silence.
I blink open my eyes, unsure if he heard me.
He stands in the doorway with his back to me, unmoving, head bowed. “Why?”
“Look at me, Zach. I’m a walking disaster. And while I have the best intentions for digging myself out of this hole, it’s not going to happen overnight. In the meantime, I’m pulling you into it. That was never my intention. I should never have stayed here in the first place.”
He slowly turns. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s code for you have no fucking clue.”
Whoa!
I’m not the only one dropping the f-bombs today. Why is he angry? He should be relieved.
“That’s code for you lost your wife, and I’m not your problem. That’s code for I’ve made it this far, I’ll figure something out. That’s code for you’re off the hook. Smile. God! Please smile because I hate the look you’ve had on your face since we left the hospital. Doom and gloom. Panic. It’s actually palpable at this very moment.”
His head eases side to side. “It’s not what you think.”
“Bullshit! You took me in because you knew Suzie wouldn’t have had it any other way. And that look … right there…” I jerk my chin in his direction… “that look says it all. It says you’re in over your head, and you can’t figure out how you’re going to get the walking disaster out of your house … out of your life … so you can truly move forward and figure out what’s next for you.”
Zach rests his forearms on the door frame, a twisted expression marring his handsome face. He’s not mine. I’m not supposed to feel any attraction toward him. I was supposed to look out for him. Bravo. I’ve done an amazingly awful job at it. Suzie befriended the wrong person. I have no clue what I’m doing.
I’m broken—physically and emotionally.
“For your information, the look on my face is one of angst. I’m trying to figure out how to suggest something—ask you something—without you losing your shit and flying off the handle into one of your ego-driven tangents about how you don’t need anything or anyone.”
“I don’t fly off the handle.” I do. I’m stubborn to a fault, but I will never admit that to him or anyone else because of said stubbornness. “Just say what you need to say or ask or … whatever.”
“I have to preface it with a few things.”
With my less injured hand, I scoot my body up a bit so I’m resting against the headboard. “Preface away.”
“Okay. But please don’t interrupt me because what I’m about to say will sound a little harsh at first.”
I swallow hard and prepare for his version of harsh.
He continues, “I don’t know if I’ll ever find love again, and I’m okay with Suzanne being the last woman I love. So what I’m going to say is not about love. It’s about gratitude and trying to repay you for everything you did for Suzanne … and for me.”
My eyes narrow. “Zach … you paid me—”
“I’m not talking about cleaning the house.” He shakes his head a half dozen times. “She needed a friend, a true friend. A friend I couldn’t be because I was too busy suffocating her with my love. You gave her the kind of love she needed. The unselfish kind.” He deflates a fraction, gaze pointed to the floor. “And you were … you are my friend too. You were just…” he lifts his gaze again “…everything we had no idea we needed.”