Page 127 of The Spider & the Storm

Tension fueled my goodbye to Stormy's friends, and I hoped they couldn't sense the tightness of my jaw or the ramrod stiffness of my spine as I nodded cordially in their direction. It had nothing to do with them and all to do with my anxiety about the conversation I knew would be happening the moment Stormy and I were alone.

My heart thumped an irregular beat as they walked away toward their respective cars.

My palms began to sweat when Stormy threaded her fingers through mine and turned to look up at me.

Nausea settled uncomfortably in my stomach and made my mouth water as she said, “I'm freezing. Let's go.”

Go. To the truck. To the cottage. To the corners of my mind I intentionally left dusty and untouched.

“Okay,” I murmured, nodding erratically. “Yeah.”

She steered the way back to the truck, strolling along the sidewalk like we were taking a casual walk through a park. Her cheek pressed to my arm, one hand in mine, the other clutching the crook of my arm. If I wasn't so wrapped up in my head, I would've enjoyed it more, this closeness. The comfort of her being there. The thrill of being in a relationship—a good one, arealone. And I tried to be present, tried to push more affection into my fingers as they pulsed around hers, tried to not freak the fuck out as we turned into the parking lot. But that wasn't who I was, no matter how much I wished to change for her.

So, after I fumbled with the keys and unlocked the truck, I helped Stormy in, shut the door behind her, and when I was sure she couldn't see, I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my fists. Taking one, two, three deep breaths in and out. Trying with desperation to steady my frenzied heart.

Then, I got in and said nothing. I waited for her to make the first move as I started the truck, Stone Temple Pilots' “Big Empty” filling the cab. Stormy cringed and changed the station.

“Hope you're not a big fan of that song,” she said without apology. “Remember I told you about that kid Billy I used to get high with? The one I watched die?”

“Yeah.”

“That song was playing when he died, and … yeah. I can't. Every time I hear it, it just sends me right back there, and …”

She gave her head a quick shake, and I know she hadn't planned it. She couldn't have. But with that single admission, that tiny anecdote that was nearly insignificant in comparison to the story she'd shared …

It was enough.

“I feel that,” I whispered, my voice strained beneath an impossible weight. “I won't ever finish watchingGame of Thronesfor the rest of my life.”

Stormy snorted. “You're not missing much, honestly. I could tell you how it ends if you wanted, but …” Her amusement settled into something more somber as her gaze swept toward me. “Why?”

Here we go.

Tears were already pricking the backs of my eyes with countless threats as I swallowed and said, “Remember I told you that my brother's in prison?”

Her lips parted with a long exhale as she nodded. “Yeah,” she replied quietly.

“Well, I, uh … I was watching that show when he was a-arrested, so, um …”

Keep it together.

She nodded slowly. “Can I ask what he did?”

Then, I took a deep breath as I pulled up to the cemetery, parallel parking outside of the locked gate. I could tell her at the cottage. I could hold off until after we at least got inside the confines of the cemetery grounds. But if I waited, if I even gave myself a few moments to think, I wasn't sure I'd be able to tell her at all.

So, with the truck running idle, I began …

CHAPTER THIRTY

CONNECTICUT, AGE THIRTY

It was wild how quickly five years could pass when life was more or less playing out like the same old broken record.

Sleep. Work. Home. Repeat.

Sure, sometimes, I'd throw in the occasional trip to the grocery store. Every now and then, I'd set myself up on another date destined to go nowhere, just to take a break from the monotony, and once in a blue moon, Luke and I would go out to dinner or catch a movie or something. But as the years spread out before us, those dates and random outings stretched fewer and further between, and honestly, I wasn't sure I cared anymore. Maybe I'd care eventually. In a few weeks, a year, a decade … I couldn't say. But right now, it didn't bother me.

Routine was predictable. It was comfortable. It was harder to get hurt when you knew exactly what every day would bring, and I couldn't imagine myself ever thinking differently. In fact, how had I ever been convinced that anything could possibly be better than this in the first place?

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