Page 50 of Loud Unspoken Memories

My hand flies up to cover my mouth. I stifle a pained cry. His son would be three.Myson is three. No wonder he looks at me the way he does. I must represent everything he lost. And me talking about Charlie—I never should have done that. I can’t imagine how he must have felt every time I said his name.

I open the nightstand drawer and gaze down at the picture. DJ was just a baby. If he’d be three today and he died two-and-a-half years ago, he’d have died shortly after this photo was taken. My heart breaks into a million pieces. Because I know all too well how he feels.

I look at the other person in the photo. The tall, blonde, beautiful woman. She looks so happy. Dallas looks happy. They’re the perfect family.

And he lost it all. He lost even more than I did. He lost everything.

I put the picture away and go to the bathroom, sobbing at how cruel life can be.

~ ~ ~

After taking a shower that felt like icicles stabbing my entire body, I park myself in front of the fire, drying my hair with a towel. I’m wearing the Yale hoodie again. Yes, it’s ripped, and yes, it’s the hoodie I was wearing when I fell in the pond. But somehow, when I wear it, I feel better. Like I’m wrapped in him. Even though it no longer smells like him after it was in the pond and then washed.

I wonder if he’ll mind if I take it when I go. It’s damaged. He’d probably throw it out anyway. I might just stuff it in with the rest of my things without telling him. As a souvenir. Something by which to remember my adventure.

My fingers run across my lips knowing I’ll never forget these past days even if I leave here with nothing but my memories.

My heart is being torn in two different directions. I desperately need to get to Charlie. To tell him about his dad. To console him like only a mother can. To figure out how life is going to be when I’m a full-time single parent.

On the other hand, getting to Charlie means leaving this place. This magical, surreal cabin, and this mercurial man I seem to have fallen for. Hard.

And deep in my soul I know there’s no way these two worlds can coexist.

I swallow my feelings and head for the kitchen cabinets, doing the one thing I know how to do when days like this hit.

Chapter Twenty-three

Dallas

It’s been hours. I’ve walked the dog. Shoveled the porch. Chopped wood. Patrolled the pond for more breaches in the ice. I even snuck back in the cabin and refilled the coolers with snow when she was in the shower.

Marti probably thinks I’m avoiding her. Punishing her for what happened yesterday. She’d be wrong. I’d have worked my fingers to the bone whether or not she was here. It’s the only way to keep the thoughts at bay.

But the thing is—it’s not working. Every swing of the ax has me seeing DJ’s face. Every crack of the wood has me hearing his laughter. Every goddamn tear that freezes on my cheek reminds me of the years I’ve spent without him.

Bex went inside long ago. He’s smart like that. Me—not so much. My fingers are so cold I can’t even wrap them around the ax anymore. I sit on my chopping stump and look back at my cabin, watching the trail of smoke plume from the fireplace vent in the roof.

I sniff, and the smell of baked goods permeates my nostrils. She’sbaking?But the oven doesn’t work.

My thoughts shift, and I remember last night. She read to me. No one has ever read to me. I mean, I’m sure Mom did when I was little. But that’s different. Hearing Marti’s soothing voice as she read one of my favorite thrillers—isthatwhat caused me to sleep so well?

I cock my head. I don’t even remember dreaming.Did I?Not a night has gone by in the past few years without me dreaming of Phoebe or DJ. It’s crazy to think that Marti reading to me was better than any sleeping pill I’ve ever taken.

As I ponder this, I see movement in the window. Marti is standing there in my Yale hoodie. She smiles and waves. Why isn’t she pissed at me? She has every right to be. I was basically a dick to her this morning. I seem to be excelling at that lately.

I wave back, my fingers stinging under my thick gloves. But I don’t smile. Today is not a day for smiling.

She sits on the sill, sipping something from a mug. It must be something warm and I momentarily imagine that warmth spreading throughout her body.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself that I’m thinking such thoughts on today of all days. I turn, pull my keys from my pocket, and get in my truck. I start the engine and blast the heater. I’ll sit here until my fingers thaw. Can’t chop wood with frozen fingers. But with the way the truck is facing, I can’t help but look toward the cabin. At her. Perched on my windowsill. I’m a good thirty feet away, but things pass between us. Things I haven’t felt in—

I cut the engine, get out of the truck, and slam the door way too hard, causing snow to come loose and cover my boots. In an attempt at even more avoidance, I busy myself scraping the few feet of snow off the hood even though it’ll likely get covered again. I look at the drift that surrounds the truck, wondering just how long it’ll be before Luther or a snowplow will reach us. Wondering just how I feel about it.

Being back in the cold has my fingers hurting again. Knowing I shouldn’t stay out here any longer, I gather an armful of wood and carry it inside.

Upon opening the door, I’m hit with a gush of warm-ish air along with the overwhelming scent of…cake?

I pile the wood in the corner and glance at the kitchen. Marti is biting that lower lip again—this time in apparent nervousness-–and her focus is all over the place, except on me. She’s sitting at the table. The table that is, in fact, holding a cake.

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