Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I’ve lapped town ten times when I finally rock to a stop and shift into park. I sink my head into my hands and cry for a minute, letting the tears flow and the memories overwhelm me. I hate it here so much, in this purgatory. I can’t move on, but I can’t go back.
Sliding my face from my hands, I look up and through the windshield, and I am horrified to find that the culmination is in a place I should have avoided at all costs. The Red Bridge water tower that sits just outside of town.
I worry my lip with my teeth, considering for a minute, and then shut off the ignition and climb out before I can think too much of it.
I’m older than I was the last time I climbed this massive ladder, but as soon as I start, my mind and body go numb, and I move through the motions without trouble.
When I get to the top, I sit down and stick my legs through the railing at the edge, staring down at the town I love. It’s amazing how it can feel like my greatest freedom and my biggest prison all at once.
I’m not made for the fast-paced, crowded feel of New York; I’m made for the sweet, tight-knit community of Red Bridge. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one. Clay belongs here too. Years ago, I suppose, that used to be a good thing.
And this water tower used to be my place until I shared it with him.
It used to be a place I’d come to breathe. To find peace. To find space. But now, it’s just a place that holds all the memories I want so badly to flee.
I look down toward the town, wondering how in the hell I got here. Wondering how, at one point in my life, I felt like everything was perfect. How did it all go so wrong?
My breath catches as I see Clay’s truck crossing the stupid, now-yellow bridge that Mayor Wallace painted last year, despite no one in the town wanting it. Clay’s heading out of Red Bridge, probably on some errand for the bar, and I continue holding my breath until he’s past the gravel road that leads to this water tower.
And I’m just about to exhale when I see his brake lights flash red, rocking the truck to a stop, and then the white lights on his tailgate brighten as he starts to reverse.
Shit.
His truck doesn’t start driving forward until it reaches the very gravel road I drove down to get here. I briefly consider if I’d be able to climb down quick enough to leave, but it’s only a millisecond before I rule out the notion as ridiculous. Even if I climb down, he’ll be at the bottom. I’m better off staying up here, where he’s afraid to come.
He hops out of his truck as I watch and comes to a stop right beside his hood, his hands on his hips and his gaze pointed up…at me.
I say nothing, instead leaning into the elevated breeze from being up this high and wait for him to make a move. He stays put for long moments—so long it feels like we’ll both be here until we die—but eventually, he moves, heading straight for the ladder and starting to climb.
I fill my lungs with intention, willing my heart to maintain its pace. It’s several minutes before he gets to the top, but when he does, I can’t help but glance over at him. His face is ashen, and his knuckles are positively white from intense pressure. His fear of heights is still a very real thing.
He clears the landing and puts his back to the surface of the sphere, sliding down to sitting, just slightly to the left and behind me.
“You come up here a lot?” he asks, his voice disarming in a way I don’t expect. It’s pressure-less.
“No.” I shake my head, but I don’t turn around. “Haven’t been up here in years. Truth be told, I don’t even know what possessed me today.”
“How’s Norah?” he asks, and I look down at my feet that dangle off the ledge.
“She’s okay. In denial, but okay. Eleanor had her so fucking snowed it’s not even funny. Finding out everything’s been a lie has been a shock, I think.”
“I bet,” he says simply, but we can both feel the weight behind his words. It’s an ache he feels very personally. A longing to know why things went so wrong with us.
I’ll never be able to explain how much I appreciate that he doesn’t ask that right now.
“She’s settling in, though,” I add, desperate to make sure I don’t give him enough time to reconsider his approach. “I think once all the dust settles, it’ll all be good.”
“And you?” he asks, such genuine care in his voice, I have to fight the urge to cry.