Blurb
Ten years is a long time when you’re
thirty-two. We’d seen our share of ups and downs, but I could honestly say,
they were mostly up. That’s the thing about happiness though. It lulls you into
a false sense of security.
Neither one of us ever thought we’d ever
be touched by crippling loss or immeasurable grief. But not all stories have a
happy ending, and I knew, better than anyone, that sometimes, one of you won’t
make it till the end. One of you has to go first. And one of you will be left
behind to pick up the pieces.
That one is me.
But starting over isn’t what I thought it
would be. I need escape from the memories that plague me, remind me. So I went
back to where it all began. To the town where I was born. To the place whose
beauty could pierce my pain. Where I experienced my first kiss, where I fell in
love, where a man was my earth. And I…
I was his sky.
Excerpt
I never really appreciated the businesses open 24/7 until
I stopped going out when the sun was up. But I’d come to find this necessity
such a relief, I was close to sending the good people at Thrifty Corporate
offices a thank you note. I could leave my house at midnight and buy a big-ass
bottle of quality gin, a pint of the best mint chocolate chip ice cream in the
world, and a jumbo-sized bottle of weed killer.
The guy at the cash register made a point of eyeing my
products. So much so, for a split second, I wondered if I’d forgotten to wear
pants. He had an obnoxious, patronizing smirk plastered to his face when he
asked, “Big night planned?”
His customer service skills left a lot to be desired, and
I was in no mood to take shit from anyone. So, I gave it to him honestly.
“Oh yeah,” I enthused, trying to remember if I’d brushed
my teeth that day. “First,” I said holding up a single finger, “I’m gonna get
drunk. Second,” I continued with two fingers and noticed he was staring at my
chest, “I’m gonna murder the plant my husband gave to me.” That’s about the
time his eyes met mine again. “And for my big finale,” I patted the tub of
ice-cream lovingly, “I’m gonna eat my feelings.”
He had no response, whatsoever, to my smartass comments or
manner, so I took my items, leaned in on my elbows, and gave him some solid,
retail advice. “You know, it’s just a normal Saturday night for any single
girl. Put these three items on a primary end-cap and sales will soar.”
Again, he didn’t find me funny.
I thought I was fucking hilarious.
A few hours later, I was on my fourth homemade Grey Goose
cocktail. This consisted of gin and Diet Coke, because these were the things I
had in the house. Not to mention the jar of maraschino cherries, which made for
a lovely garnish.
Sometime after my third drink, I’d gotten into Nick’s CDs.
With cocktail number four in hand, I stood in my front yard, Don’t Stop Believing blaring through the
open windows—on repeat—and looked at the mess I’d made. My previous plan for
the night was to simply shut my broken heart up by drowning it in liquor, then
drowning that plant with poison. I thought…if I killed the plant, I could somehow
move on from the pain. But the closer I got to home, my plan morphed into
something a little more…sinister. The gin helped, of course, but I had two
years of livid, confused emotions I’d denied for far too long, chomping at the
bit for release.
I walked into the shed and saw the area dedicated to the
care of that plumeria. I filled the wheelbarrow with big sheers and a shovel.
My intention to release the plant from the earth was foiled by rock-hard soil
which required me to soften it up with a little water. While a shallow pond
formed around my flip-flop clad feet, I gave the offensive blooms their last
trim and final rites.
“Forever’s a long time, isn’t it, little flowers? I bet
you thought that nice man would take care of you until the end of time?” Then I
opened the bottle of weed killer and poured it on top of the neat pile of
blooms. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!” I said, shaking my head as I bathed them in
poison.
I don’t know which one of my concerned neighbors called
the cops. But if it had been me, and I knew what happened to that poor woman in
the blue house, even if it had been two whole years, I would have minded my own
fucking business and hoped she only had one night of power ballads in her.
But sadly, no such luck. The flash of blue and red lights
in my periphery reminded me what I hated about my neighborhood: around here, no
one wanted to get involved in anyone else’s business. No one warned you to move
your car before you got that ticket on street sweeping day. Everyone seemed to
be suspicious of everyone else. When I was growing up, my brother and I spent
summers and some holidays at our aunt and uncle’s place outside of Guerneville.
Even now, with Johnny-Law approaching, I recalled how my uncle left in the
middle of dinner one night because the neighbor’s truck needed to be pulled
from a ditch. He didn’t ask the guy if he’d called Triple A. He said, “Be right
there, buddy.” That’s the kind of place I wanted to live. Somewhere with kind,
considerate neighbors.
I wouldn’t even think of asking my neighbors for a cup of
sugar. Not that they’d answer the door. But this was all good, because these
seemingly-small things were the catalyst to change. It was that very moment
when I realized I needed to move. Not just from the house, but from Southern
California. As soon as the thought drifted into my head, I realized how
relieved it would make my parents. They’d watched me go through the motions,
but I couldn’t move on if I stayed here. Everywhere I went, everything I did,
had some kind of connection to Nick and my life with him.
Finally, I was met with the phrase, “Ma’am, we’ve had some
calls from your neighbors…” After that, I tuned out and answered “yes” or “no”
to their questions when it was warranted. As intoxicated as I was, I managed to
rein in my gin-surliness in order to avoid incarceration. But there was a small
crowd gathered on my sidewalk. These same people had likely watched from afar
while my life fell apart and did not one thing to offer help.
When I looked at the older couple that lived next door, I
moved closer, close enough they’d be able to hear me and anyone else nearby. I
used to drop a plate of cookies on their doorstep every Christmas, but not once
had they thanked me.
“You’ve seen the entire show, haven’t you?” I asked
quietly, not wanting the officer to hear. But the old man just kept hold of his
wife and stared beyond me. But I knew he was the “man,” the “husband,” the
half-of-a-whole I’d never have again. “You watched from your porch while a
black limousine parked in front of my house. You would’ve seen me collapse,
wracked with so much pain, my dad and brother had to carry me to the car. I
came home to an empty house, stopped answering the door, and never, not once,
did you come to offer a kind word. You saw us together,” I whispered. “We
should’ve been you…and lucky, you’ve had a lifetime together. Think about that
the next time you rob a woman of her grief.”
“Ma’am,” the officer started behind me.
“Shame on you,” I said and walked away.
I went back to my house, ignoring the officer who
followed, and walked inside. I turned off the stereo and closed the windows.
Then I returned to the officer waiting on my front porch. “I just need to shut
the water off, and I’m all done for the night.”
He didn’t seem at all satisfied with my cooperation. “Is
there someone we can call for you?” He made a point of looking at my hand.
“Your husband?”
Two years… two, and I still hadn’t taken off my wedding
rings.
“I’ve gone back to my maiden name, Officer.” I hoped that
would be explanation enough.
He looked to his partner and nodded. Whatever that was
meant to convey, I had no idea. But he handed me a business card. “If you need
me, Miz…”
“Truscott. Rylie, Truscott.”
He closed the distance between us and warily glanced
behind him. “If you need me,” he said quietly, “you give me a call. I’m only a
few blocks away.”
“I assure you, I won’t have any reason to call.”
Then he stepped a little closer. “Please don’t do anything
stupid.”
His words weren’t meant to insult me, in fact, they
communicated genuine concern he seemed to feel for a fellow human, and for
that, gratitude welled up in me and formed in my eyes.
“I won’t do anything stupid. I promise,” I said and looked
at the house, “I’m done here.”
And I meant every
word.
New from J.B. Hartnett!
Watching the Sky Cry is an beautifully written,
emotional story releasing September 24th!
Add to your TBR at: http://bit.ly/2bCJnat
About the
Author:
Julie is a southern California native, a
fan of a really good story (preferably a romance with a happily ever after),
really good pie (preferably pumpkin)and copious amounts of coffee (preferably
Folgers).
She has always enjoyed writing and at one
time thought she might be a singer/songwriter. The 'writer' part is that one
that stuck.
Julie is obsessed with Pi...the equation
and the food. She's allergic to cats, cantaloupe and hates mushrooms. So if you
ever want to give her a gift, those are out for sure.
She currently lives with her romance hero
husband and two boys in Melbourne, Australia.
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