Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“I swear it’s fine,” he says after pulling back to look at me.
We stare at each other a moment, and I desperately search for some sign within his expression that he’s truly okay with this. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I’m slightly mollified.
Stepping out of his arms, I say, “Let me go get a broom and dust pan to clean up this glass.”
Asher smiles and nods. “Sure.”
I scurry to the door. Just as I’m about to walk through, I look over my shoulder at him. He’s turned to the desk and is picking up the frame. My heart seems to stall in my chest as he rubs a thumb over the edge while he stares at his dead wife.
Then, he pulls open a side drawer of the desk and puts it in there. I get the hell out of there before he finds me spying on him.
It should take me less than thirty seconds to get the broom and dust pan, but I’m still a little shaken by the whole incident. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and drink half of it before I have myself calmed down enough to go back into his office.
With my implements in hand, I make my way back there. The door is still open. Asher sits behind his desk again, packing up papers into a briefcase.
Without looking at me, he says, “I’m going to go into the office for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Okay,” I murmur in response.
Is he mad? Morose? Indifferent? I can’t tell.
I make quick work of sweeping up the glass from the floor, then dump it into the garbage can by his desk.
“I’m really sorry,” I feel the need to apologize again, wondering if the status of this budding relationship just took a major hit.
Asher stands from his chair. Again, I get another smile—genuine and understanding. “Hannah… don’t apologize again. You hurt nothing. Do you understand me?”
I nod although it’s not clear if he’s talking about the frame, himself, or both.
He holds my gaze with his for what seems like a pointedly long moment, and then he bowls me over with his next words. “It was time I put that picture away.”
“Oh, no,” I rush to assure him, stepping in close and putting the hand still clutching the dust pan to his chest. “I would never want you to feel like you had to put away a picture of the woman you love just to make me feel better about the whole thing.”
A twinkle of amusement lights up his eyes, and he bends down to put his face on level with mine. So now, he’s not looking down at me, but rather right at me. It’s a move that says, I’m being serious so listen well.
His hand comes to my face. He uses it to take hold of my jaw, the implication being that I can’t look away from him.
“I did love Michelle,” he says in the softest of tones, yet its shot through with an iron strength of determination. “But that’s not why I’ve kept her picture out five years after her death. I had it out as a reminder that you never truly know someone.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper as I lower my hand and the dust pan away from his chest.
For a moment, his expression turns pained, causing me to want to throw my arms around him. He grimaces and sighs. Setting his briefcase down, he leans back against his desk and crosses his arms.
“Michelle had some bouts of depression,” he explains. I feel ridiculous standing there with a broom in one hand and the dust pan in the other, but I’m rooted to the spot. “She took medication for it. I assumed it was working because not in a million years would I have ever thought she was in such a dark place that she’d kill herself. I’ve tortured myself since then, Hannah, wondering what I missed. How I missed it. Was I stupid or just naïve? Or was she just so fucking great at hiding it? What if I should have seen it, though? What if it was right there in front of me and I just missed it because I was so wrapped up in work or myself or what the fuck ever?”
“I can’t imagine the guilt you’ve felt,” I murmur sorrowfully. “I wish I could say or do something to alleviate that for you, but I don’t know what to do.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t do anything. It’s on me to deal with it. I’ve kept that picture as a reminder of the pain I felt when I found her. Of the anger I felt because I was pissed at her. As a reminder that I won’t ever get in that position again.”
I don’t know what to say to this. I mean, these are the sorts of things I knew about Asher. He’s withdrawn from life to some extent, and he’s closed himself off to so many things that could put his emotions at risk of hurt.