Page 69 of What's Left of Us

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Georgia/ Seven Years Ago

My mediocre payingjob at the public library that takes up three days of my week is slow and even a little boring, but a manageable pace I can handle, given my nonexistent experience.

It’s three days a week I don’t have to sit in the apartment waiting for Lincoln,my husband,to come home. His family was shocked, maybe even a little hurt that they weren’t at our wedding, but they were happy for us. Genuinely happy in a way I know my father could never be.

His mother hugged me, his father followed lead, and Hannah congratulated me, asking why I lied about not being involved with her brother.

Being married is…odd. Nothing has changed. There’s no ring on my finger or routine that’s any different than before. The only thing we have to show for it is a piece of paper and the photographs that somebody took when Judge Tallahassee said,“You may now kiss the bride.”

I suppose it’s good that nothing has changed.

Lincoln told me it would be fine when I’d bitten my nails to the quick as each day passed and I heard nothing of my father. As much as Lincoln insisted he couldn’t do anything to us, I wasn’t sure I believed him.

Because maybehecouldn’t.

But what about the Carbones or the people my father and Antonio were associated with can?

Lincoln said he was using psychological warfare to keep me paranoid. If he was, it’s working. Because as each day passes,I wait on the edge of my seat for the other shoe to drop. And it never does. It hovers just above the ground, teasing the anticipation for the finalthump.

Rereading the same page of a new book I picked up, thanks to my pestering thoughts, I settle into my spot behind the counter. It’s a slower day than usual, and I hate it. Because the fewer people I’m dealing with, the more time I have to think. And being inside my head is not a fun place to reside right now.

I’m about to give up on the book altogether when somebody walks in, letting a swift breeze in that shuffles my hair.

“Checking out or dropping off?” I ask, finishing the sentence I’m on before tucking a bookmark in my spot.

I bolt up when I see the person standing a few feet from the desk. “Mrs. Ricci?”

The older woman looks different in blue jeans and a sweater that she never would have been allowed to wear at the house. My father always said professionalism was dressing for the part, and denim didn’t belong. Even for the housekeeper.

She’s studying the space I occupy, a softness to her face that looks older somehow. “I didn’t believe it,” she admits with a shake of her head before meeting my eyes. “They said you were working here.”

They? “Who?”

It’s not the only question I want to ask her. I want to know why she hasn’t tried reaching out since I left. Why she’d let my father put such a large wedge between us when I thought we were friends—or whatever two people with our age gap could be. After a while, I’d given up hoping to hear from anybody. Her. My family. Millie.

My father wanted to isolate me, and he’d gotten his wish.

Mrs. Ricci takes a book off the stack that I need to reshelve and studies the cover. Her lips curve when she sees the half-naked cowboy on the front. “I wasn’t surprised when I heardyou’d gotten a job at a library. You loved reading since you were a little girl. Do you remember all those times you would ask me to read you to sleep?”

Hurt fills my sternum at her attempt at reminiscing. It seems misplaced. “You didn’t reach out,” I say, voice quieter than before.

Guilt crests on her face. “You know I couldn’t. What your father wants…”

He gets.

Swallowing, I reluctantly nod.

My former housekeeper gives me another once-over, and I wonder if she’s disappointed in what she sees. The clothes I’m wearing are cheap thrift store or clearance rack finds—a far cry from the designer brands I used to parade around in. I cut my own hair, so the ends are probably uneven. I never packed my makeup in my haste to leave and only picked up the cheapest items I could find at the dollar store. I look nothing like the put-together girl she was used to seeing.

I’ve let myself be proud of how far I’ve come on my own despite the odds, but shame always finds a way to creep in somehow.

“Your father made it clear that I was not to reach out regardless of how badly I wanted to,” she explains, setting the book down. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care. I do, Georgia.”

“If you wanted to talk to me, you could have found a way. Even when we think we don’t, we have choices. I got out. I figured out how.”

Sadness sweeps over her face. “Life isn’t that easy, sweet girl.”

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