Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
It’s not a solution when Trent has paid off the sheriff. They’ve shown up before, said a casual “Keep it down” and turned around.
Jake shakes his head slowly in pained thought. “You said he’d do something I won’t survive. What’d you mean by that?”
“He knows you love animals, and he had someone fuck with the horses, Jake. What else do you love?”
He stares off with tightened eyes. “What or who?”
I swallow tar. His reddened gaze lifts to mine, and I wish—I wish, more than anything—that he never got attached to the only two women I’d go to hell for. “He thinks you loved Phoebe. He doesn’t know you have any feelings for my sister. Keep it that way. Or else she’ll be the rope you’re wrenching back and forth in your tug-of-war. And it’s one thing to have Phoebe in that role, but Hailey has never been in that position. Ever.”
It’s why I’ve been so very fucking careful of acknowledging my sister whenever I’m with Trent. I barely say hey to her. The more interest I give her, the more interest he takes.
And I want him to forget she even exists.
NINE
Hailey
“Toss or pack?” Phoebe holds up a bright neon-green spatula, the side clearly melted.
I’ve never been attached to things. Not like Phoebe, who has a sentimental collection of strawberry paraphernalia. Letting go of a rare green-cloth binding 1894 peacock edition of Pride and Prejudice was as easy as forging a signature. No effort. No second thoughts.
So I’m surprised that I’m even contemplating keeping a spatula that looks like it was a Popsicle caught in the Arizona sun. But I remember melting down marshmallows on the stove for Rice Krispy treats. I remember leaving the spatula too long in the frying pan because Olly and I started chatting about Mary Mallon, commonly known as Typhoid Mary. Time passed and I didn’t notice the utensil melting until I smelled it.
We laughed over the deformed spatula, and Oliver told me I couldn’t trash it. “It has too much character to let the garbage claim it,” he said with a classic Oliver wink.
Now in the loft, it feels like an easy choice. But one I wouldn’t have made a year ago. “Pack,” I tell Phoebe.
She startles. “Really?” She squints at the spatula. “I know we’re not ‘throw money up in the air’ kind of flush, but we can afford a new spatula.”
“I like that one,” I confess. “It has memories.”
Phoebe smiles at me, and I give her my best look to drop it. But she says, “Hailey Tinrock—”
“Stop.” I point a finger at her as her smile blossoms.
She presses her lips together for a split second before she caves. “Being sentimental over an object. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“One object.” I rip a piece of packing tape. “If you find me hoarding deformed kitchen utensils, I give you full authority to initiate an intervention.”
Phoebe carefully places the melted spatula on a layer of bubble wrap like it’s a fragile porcelain doll. The dramatics of my best friend are nothing new. Watching her fit household items into a box, however, is so new and foreign it feels like we’ve entered a parallel dimension.
Is that what happened when we came to Victoria? We stepped foot into another universe?
Stop thinking about that, Hailey. One of my worst mental spirals was when I started a deep dive into quantum mechanics and string theory.
Three days have passed since lunch with the godmothers, and I haven’t missed any chunks of time since. Not remembering the phone call to Carter or how I ended up in Rhode Island scared me enough to try hard to get better sleep. So far, so good.
I don’t need to fuck it all up by restarting an old obsession.
We have enough issues trying to pack for a move to nowhere. We’re relocating some of the household items—utensils, toaster, bedding—to a small storage unit while we pack our clothes for the summer stay at Stonehaven.
I know Phoebe isn’t a dreamer. She barely can see what next month looks like, let alone the next five years. But I hate to say that I dreamed about this loft. Dreamed I would one day have enough money from the Koning job to buy it and the little bookstore underneath. Silly dreams. Wasted dreams. Just more for the trash bin.
While I struggle stuffing decorative pillows into a box, Phoebe asks, “How’s the morning sickness?” It’s just us two in the loft today, or else she wouldn’t be asking so openly. It’s still a heavy secret. One that grows heavier by the day. Literally and figuratively. My baby is the size of a grape now, but before I know it, it’ll be as big as a pumpkin.
“Better,” I tell Phoebe. “Carter sent me some prescription anti-nausea meds that have been helping.”