Page 11 of Loud Unspoken Memories

Seeing her that way makes me think about DJ and how I used to worry. What if he learned to pull himself up and I wasn’t there? What if he fell out of his crib? If I could only go back and tell myself those are inconsequential things to worry about. If only he’d lived long enough to pull himself up. To smile up at me and call me Daddy. To grow up into the man I knew he could be.

Swallowing those thoughts, I go to the other side of the room. The kitchen is clean. Pans and dishes put away. And… damn it, my entire cabin smells of her. Vanilla, I think. I put another log on the fire hoping the smell of burning wood will somehow overtake the scent of her.

I turn down the lights—though she doesn’t seem to mind them being on. She’s definitely down for the count. But having slept earlier today, I’m not tired yet. I get my current technothriller read off the nightstand and dive in. Hours later, done with that book, I open my laptop, stick my AirPods in, and practice some more ASL. Luckily I downloaded the entire program. No internet necessary. It’s the newest language I’m learning.

After hours of that, my eyelids are finally feeling heavy. I debate trying to sleep on the small couch, but I know getting my six-foot frame comfortable enough to sleep here would be nearly impossible.

I use the bathroom and get ready for bed, keeping on my clothes like Marti did, only choosing to forgo the shoes. I’m not sure how anyone can sleep in shoes. Carefully, I sit on the bed, keeping myself as far from her as I can, and lie down on my back, staring at the ceiling as I watch shadows dance from the flames in the fireplace.

The bed squeaks when Marti rolls toward the center. Turning to face her, I see that her eyes are still closed and the knife is no longer under her hand.

I study her, the only woman I’ve ever shared a bed with other than my wife, and I feel sick to my stomach. As if I’m somehow betraying Phoebe.

It strikes me how Marti looks the complete opposite of my late wife. In every way possible. Phoebe was tall, blonde, pale-skinned with high cheekbones. Marti is a brunette with a stubborn cowlick just to the left of her part. She’s petite, athletic, her skin kissed by the sun.

She shouldn’t be here.

Guilt crawls along my spine, stopping at every vertebra, curling its long fingers around them and squeezing until it hurts. Phoebe is the one who should be lying next to me.

People just don’t get how all-consuming grief is. Even my own family has a hard time comprehending it. Mom and Allie constantly beg me to move back to Calloway Creek. My brothers aren’t as insistent, but I can tell they’re having a hard time with my being gone. We were always a close family. My tragedy fractured that.

They can’t possibly understand. Before Phoebe and DJ died, I didn’t understand it myself. The pervading nature of grief. It’salways there, under the surface, in the background, a constant hum reminding me they’re gone. It doesn’t matter if I put on a suit, paste on a smile, and stand up at my brother’s wedding, I’m still brokenhearted. And it’s the kind of broken that can’t be fixed. Or wished away. It’s always going to be there. Phoebe makes sure of it, making almost nightly appearances in my dreams. Telling me how much she loves me. How she’ll always be with me.

Fuck.

I put my AirPods back in and play music to stop the noise in my head.

My eyes unable to remain open, I drift off to sleep listening to Bon Jovi sing about riding on his steel horse. Eighties music was always Phoebe’s favorite.

I float awake and drift down the aisle toward her. She’s wearing her wedding dress and veil. Why is she at the altar? Shouldn’t she be the one walking toward me? I can’t see her face as her back is to me, but I know she’s beautiful. Our wedding song is playing. But something feels wrong. Where are all the guests? Empty chairs line the aisle. Except for one. The first chair in the front is occupied by a child. He turns as I approach.

“DJ?” I say, kneeling in front of him.

He’s older now. Three maybe. He has his mom’s platinum-blonde hair and my dark brown eyes, a striking combination that will surely make him a lady-killer one day.

Music swells, bringing my attention back to my bride. She turns and holds out her hand. I walk toward her thinking she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She smiles brightly for a second, then it falls. Her face changes. She pales. Dark circles form beneath her eyes. Her arms turn frail as if they’d snap like twigs if I touched her. Her entire frame seems to wither right before my eyes. I rush to steady her as she teeters to one side.

Her sunken eyes look into mine. “You could never replace me.”

“Of course I couldn’t,” I say, pulling her tightly against me. “I love you.”

Screaming echoes in my head.

“Dallas, stop!”

When my eyes snap open, I’m staring at the eight-inch blade of a very familiar knife.

Chapter Six

Martina

“Put that fucking thing away!” he yells.

“The hell with that.” I grip it tighter. “You were mauling me.”

He hops out of bed looking mortified and steps as far away from me as he can. Shaking his head, he bends over and rests his hands on his knees. “Jesus, I was having a dream.”

I rehome the knife. “It must have been a doozy.”

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