Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“I try to be. I don’t want to fuck it up, ya know?”
“I know,” I reply. “And you won’t.”
“Can I ask you something?” Cillian says after a moment.
“You can ask me anything.”
“T said you were at our house in New Hampshire. Why did you go there?”
I drop my head back, squeezing my eyes shut. I should have expected this question, but the truth is, I don’t know how to respond. Why did I bring Abbott, a man I didn’t know, to a place I hold so dear to me? A place I shared with Moira and my son? It’s fucked when you think about it—that I fucked him there, this man who made me remember what it’s like to want someone, to crave them again. Maybe I had to do it there. Maybe that’s the only place that could open me up—all my emotions too sharp and powerful there.
“Dad?” he asks, after a moment.
Dad. How ridiculous is it that the name makes me want to cheer? “I’m here. I’m just trying to figure out how to answer,” I say honestly. “I don’t know why I went there, really. It just felt right.”
“Okay,” he says. “Something is different.”
I am different.
I feel more like me. “I’m good, son. Just trying to figure some things out.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
I smile at his response, glad I called, glad I did what Abbott said I should try to do. “I will. I love you.”
“I…love you too, Dad.”
We end the call, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
I wish I could tell Abbott, but instead, I pull up the monitoring app and watch the flashing dot. That’s all I have.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Abbott
I haven’t had much to do with myself for the past few days. I’m not used to being home and not going to work. Being a surgeon is my whole identity, and now that I’m taking a longer leave of absence to sort shit out in my head, I’ve realized even more that without work…I have nothing.
I’ve been going to the gym a lot and have spent more time jogging, which is what I’m doing now. It’s after nine, and my hope is that burning off some energy will help me sleep tonight.
My feet pound against the pavement, vibrating up my legs and making my body shake. My legs are tired. My whole body is. I’ve been out here close to an hour already, but can’t seem to make myself go inside, to just sit alone. Is it so much better jogging alone?
I keep going, push myself harder. My body screams at me, but I ignore it. Why does everything in my life feel so different now? It’s like I can’t get myself on steady ground, like my equilibrium feels off since I removed the blindfold in the woods and realized Rian was gone.
I take another lap around the block, and each time I do, I can’t help but feel like someone is watching me. Like there are eyes on me, everywhere, all the time, no matter where I go. It’s been happening since I returned home.
Every time I feel it, I tell myself it’s Rian—that he’s out there, following me the way he did in the hospital that night, unable to stay away.
By the time I force myself back into my house, I can hardly hold myself up. I lock the door—something I make sure to do even during the day when I’m home—then go straight for the shower, turning it on before tugging off my sweat-drenched clothes.
Has Rian decided to buy a concert hall, I wonder as I stand under the spray. Probably not. We’ve only been home a few days, and I’m sure Boston’s Irish mob boss has a lot to do. Have they found the men who tried to kill him? Has Rian killed them? And if so, how do I feel about that?
Shitty, of course. I don’t want them to die. I don’t want anyone to die, but they did try to kill Rian, and he’s right, if he had let them, they would have killed me that day too.
I scrub my skin as though the pain will distract me from my obsessive thoughts about him, wash up, and then dry off.
I pull on a pair of boxer briefs, turn out the lights, and climb into bed, looking up toward the dark ceiling and the dim slashes of light that shine across it through the blinds from the light post outside.
I hear nothing except my own breathing, but suddenly, the feeling of being watched is there again, this time pressing against me like a finger on a bruise, little pulses echoing out from the pressure.
My heart lurches into my throat. I swear the darkness feels like it moves—shifts—and I reach over for my cell on the nightstand when I get a whiff of bourbon and vanilla and am immediately filled with hope.