Page 29 of Somewhere Without You
The world blurred as the crowd continued to surge around us, unaware of the danger closing in.Through the haze, IsawRita, movingquickly, Mia trailing close behind. They didn’t glance back as they fled from me, from the nightmare unfolding right in front of their eyes.
Andthere, standing in the distance,wasGran—her eyes heavy with grief, her face etched with a sorrowthatcut deeper than anything Ihadeverfelt. She didn’t need to speak. I alreadyknew. Ihadbrokenher heart.
The overhead PA crackled to life. Katherine’s voice broke through the chaos.“She’s gone,”it echoed throughout the terminal.“She’s gone.”
I couldn’t hold on anylonger. My body went slack, collapsing beneath the weight of his hands, still holding on, still choking the life from me.
“Did you ever love me?”I croaked as my gaze met his.Buttherewasnothingthere. His eyeswereblack, vacant craters.
Jackson didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Thiswasn’tlove. Thiswasnever love.
Thiswasa dangerous lie.
Fifteen
Ijoltedawake,gaspingfor air. My hands shot to my throat, frantically pulling the lilac-colored sheets that had somehow wound around my neck.
A sharp, cool breath filled my lungs as Kat’s voice, a distant echo, still lingered in my ears. I shook my head to clear it.
Across the room, the curtains billowed with the cool mountain breeze. A shiver ran through me as Inoticedthe quilted comforter, discarded in a heap on the floor beside my pillow. Stretching, I pushed myself upright, the old wood floor groaning beneath me as I tossed the quilt back onto the bed.
Dawn broke over the eastern horizon, a faint glow illuminating the dark silhouette of the Appalachian mountains, still bathed in the soft light of the moon.
I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 6:45 AM.
My fingers traced the hollow of my throat, and another shiver wracked my body.Therewasno way in hell Icouldfall back asleep—not with the heavy reminder of whatwaswaiting for me. I yanked open my suitcase, slipped into my robe, and hurried down the hallway.
Gran’s familyhadownedthis house for generations—long before the Civil War. Over time, modern additionshadbeen made—new appliances, electricity, but the farmhouse’s timeless charmhadalways remained. . .untilnow.
It broke my heart toseeit like this, knowing how bright, vibrant, and well-loved ithadonce been.
I stepped into the kitchen. The wood floors beneath my feetwerescarredand worn, the grainnearlyerased in places. I sighed, the weight of guilt pressing on me.IfIhadnever left, if Ihadstayed—would things have turned outdifferently?
Peering out the kitchen window, the shattered remains of a hand-painted gate lay scattered across the backyard. Standing on tiptoes, I leaned over the sink, my eyes tracing the sullen, overgrown patch of earth. Whathadonce been a lively, flourishing gardenwasnow a wild tangle of weeds.
I closed my eyes, blinking back the tears. The blue twilight of dawnwasbeginning to fade, and Iwasn’tgoing to waste the morning drowning in self-pity.
Shaking off the sorrow, I forced myself into motion. I yanked open the cupboard door and grabbed the first mug Icouldfind. The ceramic handlewaspaintedblue, adorned with two smudged pink handprints twisted into a lopsided heart. Beneath each printweremine and Katherine’s initials. Another sob caught in my throat, threatening to break free.
I set the mug down and spun the lazy Susan, searching for the coffee. Everythingwasexactlywhere ithadalways been. My gaze landed on the small red tin of instant coffee nestled between the flour and sugar.
Reaching for it, I stopped. Something behind the oats and cornmeal caught my attention. Icouldseeits shadow. Kneeling, I peered into the cupboard’s dark corner. The shadow blinked.
A scream tore from me as alargesquirrel shot across cans of baked beans, knocking over a bag of flour in its frantic escape. I fell back onto the floor, slamming my hands down as a massive cloud of white dust exploded into the air,temporarilyblinding me. The squirrel, leaving a trail of tiny white paw prints, disappeared around the corner.
I coughed, sending more flour into the air as I struggled to sit up. Flour coated my hair, my robe,evenmy eyelashes. IlookedlikeI’dbeen in a fight with a bakery.
Staring at my dusted hands, something inside me shifted. A laugh bubbled up, deep and booming, shaking my whole body. It echoed through the small kitchen, butjustasquicklyas it came, it faded into a heavy sob. Tears streamed down my flour-streaked face, carving dirty trails through the powder.
What a fucking mess.
My shoulders trembled as I spiraled into a full-blown breakdown.Whenthe shakingfinallyeased, leaving nothing but a dry heave, I wiped my sleeve across my face, only smearing the flour further.
I sattherefor a moment, breathingheavily. Icouldhearthelowhum of the house settling, the creaks and groans of its tired bones—as though the wallsweremourning with me.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and stood upslowly. My bodyfeltheavy, like Iwasdragging the weight of everything—every mistake, every regret, with me.
