Page 150 of Wait For It

I’d spentthe better part of the past two years traveling the world and immersing myself in other religions and cultures. Beliefs varied wildly by region, but all shared some idea of where we went after death.

For Hindus, salvation was found in reincarnation.

For Muslims, souls awaited the Day of Resurrection, where they would be judged accordingly.

Buddhists believed the mind experienced a rebirth, bringing them one step closer to purifying past mistakes and achieving enlightenment.

Jewish tradition dictated that the soul went to heaven, allowing the person to live on in the memories of the ones left behind.

I couldn’t tell you which one had it right, but in the last year, I’d discovered that death didn’t always bring closure or justice. There were some wounds so deep that only God could heal.

After being convicted on all but one count and facing a minimum of one hundred forty-seven years in prison, Tristan James hung himself in his cell.

Since then, I’d done a lot of soul-searching to work through the grief that had come disguised as anger. Although he never made it to sentencing, there was justice in knowing he’d died in a cage. Maybe someday, I’d find peace. Until then, I took solace in the fact that he would never hurt anyone again.

I’d let Tristan control me in life, but he wouldn’t have that hold in death. He’d been blinded by religion, consumed with finding God in laws and rules. That fanatical thirst for power only destroyed him in the end.

It would have been enough to turn even the most devout person into an atheist, but my faith had never been dependent on the church.

And my savior had never lived behind stained glass windows.

He’d been with me all along.

Right on cue, my phone began buzzing from beside me. Killian’s name flashed across the screen, along with one of my favorite pictures of the two of us. Georgia had taken it when we were in Mauritius last November during the festival of Diwali. We’d spent most of the day on the beach, our faces sunburned but smiling.

Italy. Thailand. Sri Lanka. Each time, we got lost in each other for as long as possible before the real world crept in and stole him away again.

Living apart eight months out of the year had certainly tested the strength of our relationship. There were even times when I wanted to reach through the phone to flick his forehead in aggravation.

Not anymore.

I swiped my finger across the screen, my stomach giving a gentle flutter as his face came into focus. “Is this the Killian Reed, world-famous baseball player? I can’t tell with the giant beard in the way.”

His lips curved into a grin, and I felt the tug of missing him all over again. “You know I can’t shave until we win it all, girl. What are you up to?”

I lifted my shoulder in a shrug, fighting my own grin. “Oh, you know, justEat, Pray, Love-ing, and all that jazz.”

“I gotta say, I’m a little surprised you know what that is, darlin’.”

There it was again, this longing to be next to him. Hearing his southern twang come through with certain words left me feeling homesick, not for a place, but for him. I’d been surrounded by a variety of accents over the past two years, but his was my favorite of all.

“Oh, you know Georgia. She reads anything Oprah recommends,” I explained with a laugh. “Anyway, what are you doing? Ready for tonight?”

He stretched his arms overhead. “Just woke up and made breakfast. I couldn’t unwind last night. I think it was close to three before I finally fell asleep.”

“Mmm…” I licked my lips. “Egg white omelets, my favorite.”

Sleep hadn’t come easily for me either. I might have been just as nervous about game seven of the World Series as he was, but for entirely different reasons.

“Hey, knock it all you want. You’re missing out on the best way to start your day—” Killian paused and lifted an eyebrow suggestively. “Correction—the second-best way to start your day. So, are y’all still in Paraty, or were you going to go to São Paulo?”

“We’re still here,” I lied, heat staining my cheeks. Hopefully, he’d assume my blush was due to his veiled reference to morning sex and not any duplicitousness on my part.

He settled back against the pillows with a relaxed sigh. “I was thinking, if you’re going to be sticking around for a while, it might be fun to explore Brazil together. I mean, once we get through tonight. Or…”

“Or,” I parroted, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“Or you could come home, slugger. The trial’s been over for months now, and after what happened with Tristan—”

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