Page 39 of Buried Dreams

I knew the minute I walked into the apartment that something was wrong. Fuck, I knew something was wrong for the last six months. I found him on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in front of him and his elbows on his knees, with his head hanging down. My eyes went from him to the empty bottle. “Hey,” I said, putting my purse down. I took one step into the living room, and his head came up. His eyes were bloodshot, from the whiskey or crying, I didn’t know. “Are you okay?” I asked even though nothing had been right since the night of the accident. Instead of us being closer than ever, we were miles and miles apart. At first, I made excuses for him: he lost his best friend in the accident and his other best friend, Charlie, was off the rails.

“The court case starts tomorrow,” he said, his voice husky, and I took steps toward him. “I’m being called as a character witness for Waylon.” Some of the survivors were suing Waylon’s estate for wrongful death.

“What?” I asked, shocked. “What do you mean?”

“It means, I’m going to go on that stand and tell them what kind of guy Waylon was.” I waited for him to tell me he was joking. “And the accident wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t being reckless.”

“But he was,” I snapped, my heart pounding. “He was not in his right mind, and we both knew it.”

“We knew fucking nothing.” He stood, and I guess he was more drunk than I thought he was because he fell back on his ass. “He was fine.”

“He was all over the fucking place on that road, and you know it!” I shrieked. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because they asked me to,” he admitted, his voice soft, “and I’m doing it.”

“Why?” The loaded question. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” He avoided my eyes.

“You are not.” I shook my head. “You are not going to fucking do that. Are you crazy? You will be lying under oath.” He shook his hand away, and I was livid, so livid I had tears running down my face. I stood. “Brock, you do this and it’ll be the end of us.” I finally had enough, and I knew he would choose me. He had to choose me.

Instead of looking at me with the love he’d shown me over the years, it was a glare. He was mad at me. “Don’t you fucking threaten me.”

“I’m not threatening you,” I said calmly. “I’m telling you if you go into the courthouse tomorrow and you lie, it will be over between us.” I turned, not willing to stand there any longer. I picked up my purse by the door and looked back over at him.

The following morning, I waited outside the courthouse for him, and when he saw me there, he stopped in front of me. “I’m begging you not to do this.”

“I’m doing it, Everleigh,” he said. “Get over it.” He walked past me, and I grabbed his hand, not knowing it would be the last time.

“Brock,” I said his name so soft. “I love you, please don’t do this. Don’t do this to us.”

“It’ll be fine.” That was all he said before he walked away from me and went to the courtroom.

“Brock,” I called him, and he looked over his shoulder one last time, and all I could do was shake my head. He gave me a chin up and walked away from me. I didn’t even attend the hearing. Instead, I went to the apartment and packed up all of my stuff. It was the last time I spoke to him. It was the last time I touched him. It was the last time my heart beat normally in my chest.

I wipe the tears from my face before I get up from the ground and make my way home. I open the front door and see the house dark, except for the light on top of the stove. When I walk up the steps, it feels as if my heart is broken like it was all those years ago. I don’t sleep a wink that night, not one fucking wink. I keep hearing his voice in my head over and over again. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t hate you.” Seeing his face so broken and defeated, I hate that. Hate that he felt that way. Hate that, after all these years, the pain is still so fresh and the wounds haven’t healed. Not one fucking bit.

The alarm doesn’t wake me up because my eyes never shut. Getting out of bed, I head downstairs, tying my hair up on my head as I walk over to the fridge before starting my day. Three hours later, I’m rushing out of the house with bins and bins of donuts. My mother helps pack them all in the car, and when I get to the truck, my stomach flips with nerves, wondering if people are actually going to come.

I open the back door, grabbing a couple of bins and carrying them over from the truck. Putting them down, I then open the door. I’m putting them on the counter and I’m about to go back to my car when the bakery door opens and a man comes out, a tool belt around his waist and his white shirt looks like he’s got dirt on it. “Hey,” he says, “I’m Caleb.” He wipes his hand on his shirt, where more dirt is added. “My father is Jensen.”

“Hi.” I smile at him and extend my hand. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” He nods. “I’m going to help you unload your car,” he announces, walking with me to my car and the back door that is still open.

“You don’t have to do that.” I look over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I do.” He chuckles. “You can go and set up, and I’ll get these over to you.” I look at the man with his light hair and green eyes.

I think about arguing with him, but a truck arriving has me looking over, and I see Harmony getting out of it and walking over to me with a smile. “You didn’t think you could have a grand opening without a couple of my cakes, did you?” She laughs, and then I shake my head. “And Autumn is coming with balloons.” I gawk at her as Autumn arrives with not just a couple of balloons but two bouquets of ten.

“There,” she says, putting one at each end of the truck. “Now, that is much better.” They give me both a hug before rushing back home to take care of their families.

I shake my head, grabbing my phone out of my pocket and snapping a picture. Opening social media, I post it on all the platforms we are on with the caption “Open for Business” before walking up to the food truck and starting the coffee. It’s almost done when my first customer arrives. “Hi,” I greet, looking at Ryan and the boys from the shop. “My first customers. What can I get you?”

“A coffee for each of us,” Ryan orders, “and can I try the new donut I saw on Instagram?”

“Will do,” I reply, grabbing the paper cups and pouring in the coffee, and then placing them all on the stainless-steel ledge that is welded on there. “Here you go,” I say, turning and walking over to one of the bins and taking the donut out. I place it in a small white bag before walking over and handing it to him. He’s about to hand me money when I shake my head. “On the house. Thank you for all the help, boys,” I state, and even though I tell them it is free, they still each leave a couple of dollars on the ledge.

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