Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73010 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73010 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Moving to LA was like a breath of fresh air, even if it practically destroyed me to leave John. I begged him to come with me, but he was dead set on letting me forge my path, married or not. Besides, he despised Los Angeles as much as I did Aqua Vista. Well, despise is probably too strong a word. It was more symbolic than that. More like leaving behind my demons.
Life is messy—even when there’s plenty of love to go around—and my relationship with John certainly is in shambles.
Same with my grandfather. He gave me a secure place to live out the rest of my childhood, but that was the extent of it. He didn’t radiate love or warmth, and he threatened to send me to foster care when I acted out—especially after I nearly ruined his fisher reputation. Instead, I was banished from the docks, and he knew that would be punishment enough.
I often wondered if my father grew up in a cold, distant household too, or if my late grandmother carried the load for my grandfather. Dad never did much reminiscing with me, though I hear he’s much more reflective behind bars. Sobering up after a drunk-driving incident that killed someone might do that to you.
I cut the engine and stare up at the stone house. The wrought-iron balcony on the second floor has the remains of dead flowers in a large pot. I would step out there for a midnight smoke and fall asleep on the uncomfortable chair. My back would be stiff, but I enjoyed the mountain air on my skin.
Sometimes, John would sneak up to my room by climbing the trellis with all the ivy, careful not to get caught by my grandfather, who would sit in his recliner by the large bay window on the mountain side of the house. I can still picture his fuzzy slippers and mug of black coffee. I smile at the memory because it’s one of the good ones.
Uneasiness settles in my chest. Grandpa’s back was a mess from working as a deckhand most of his life. Hauling and sorting the catch, as well as setting lines and traps, led to him using a cane and eventually retiring in his early sixties from a position he loved as a boatswain on Calamity Jane, a large trawler that caught mostly bass, trout, and halibut but wouldn’t turn away cod, herring, and anchovy for a good price. Still, I’d thought the man would live at least another decade. Now I wish I’d insisted on inviting myself for the holidays last year. He always blew them off, and I let him, for obvious reasons. It’d been increasingly harder to return to Aqua Vista.
I exit the car and grab my bag, making a mental list. I have to pick up his ashes and figure out what to do with them. Rosie will know. Then I need to get this house sold.
3
JOHN
He’s here. I can feel him. Always could. It doesn’t matter that Beth told me she spotted Micah rolling into town. It’s as if my heart is a homing device, clenching, beating, searching, wanting him near.
Still, my breath catches when the door swings open and Micah walks into my bar. I drink in every inch of him, from his long legs to his prominent shoulders, his dark-brown coiffed hair, clean-shaven jaw, and caramel eyes. Like one of those old-school movie stars. He is still one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I need to get it together before I give myself away. It’s been years, and he still has the power to disarm me. I can’t let that happen. Not anymore.
The bar is empty this early, which I’m thankful for, not only because there will be fewer witnesses to our reunion but also because it feels like I’m in a dream as he moves toward me, causing memories to blur together.
“Meet me behind the stage curtains so we can make out.”
“Let’s do it, let’s get married. I want to be your husband.”
I nod nonchalantly as he approaches. “Sorry to hear about your grandfather.”
“Thanks.” I can just make out a mix of grief and discomfort in his irises. “He lived a long life, even though the last few years were questionable.”
“I tried to keep an eye out.”
“I figured you would.” His gaze meets mine. “Always willing to lend a hand.”
“That’s me,” I mutter, regardless of whether the sentiment is true or not. Sure, I’m available to help people in the community, but not like my father was. “Let me know if you need help getting anything squared away at the house.”
“Christ.” He rubs a hand over his face. “He got worse with age. The place is stacked to the gills with junk.”
“What kind of junk?”
“Anything you could imagine someone would collect. Planter pots, ridiculous figurines I didn’t even realize he was interested in. Every newspaper and magazine known to man. Stacks and stacks of them.”