Page 36 of Somewhere Without You
Slowly, I pushed myself upright—trying to keep the nausea Iwasfeelingat bay.Why did I do this to myself?I alreadyknewwhy, but sometimes excuses are easier to swallow than the truth.
I hugged my arms to my chest and shuffled down the stairs. Spring in the Appalachians can beverytemperamental, and I hugged myself tighter as the morning chill glazed over my skin.
“Water and coffee,”I mumbled, my eyes squinting against the haze of sleep as I stumbled into the kitchen.
The rich scent of ground coffee bloomed beneath my nose as I scooped a generous spoonful into the filter. I grabbed the handmade mug from the counter, added a splash of cream, and hovered by the machine, willing it to brew faster.Whenitwasfinallydone, I cradled the cup in both hands like something sacred.
Steam curled up in lazy tendrils as I tookthatfirst, blissful sip. My gaze drifted over the rim of the mug, scanning the kitchen—until it landed on the leather satchel, still resting on the table. My memoryslowlytrickled in—followed by a hot flush of embarrassment.
Ihadwrittena letter to a Civil War soldier. AdeadCivil War soldier.
Ifmy headwasn’tstill pounding, I would have laughed. Desperation doesn’tgetmuch clearer thanthat. At least no one elsewashere toseeit.
I set the mug down and walked to the table.Maybeitwastime to pack all this away.I’dcall around this afternoon and find a museum to donate them to.Thatwaswhere they belonged.Butfirst, I needed to burn the one Ihadwritten. The one no onewasever meant tosee. I didn’tevenwant toseeit again.
I reached for the satchel and unfastened the clasp,fullyexpecting toseemy crumpled, wine-stained letter nestled inside.
Itwasn’tthere.
Instead, a fresh envelope rested at the bottom with my name written across it in delicate, spidery script.
My heart lurched. How muchhadIactuallyhadto drink?
I stared at the letter, the buzz of my hangover fading beneath a creeping chill.
“This isn’t happening,”I whispered.
Ilookeddown at the satchel again, a coil of dread tightening in my chest.“I’veofficiallylost my mind.”
I brushed my fingertips over my name. It didn’tseemreal—like touching a bruise Ihadn’tknownwasthere.
The rational part of my brain—the partthatusuallyfunctioned,evenifhaphazardly, scrambled for answers. It pointed to the wine bottle, the throbbing headache, the haze of a morning hangover. It offered up simple explanations like an elaborate prank, or a rare form of temporal displacement induced by. . . well, Iwasn’tentirelysure, but cheap alcoholseemedlike a solid culprit.
I should open it, right? I mean, itwasaddressedto me after all.It wouldbe rudenotto read it.
Hesitantly, I tore the envelope open. The brittle paper crackled like dry autumn leaves beneath my fingers.
“Dearest Miss Hart. . .”
I sucked in a breath.
Nope. No way. Thiswasn’thappening.
I pressed my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. I needed to sit down. I needed to breathe.
I set the letter on the table and dropped into the nearest chair, letting my head fall in my hands.Maybeif I counted backward,I’dsnap out of whatever hangover induced hallucination thiswas.
“Ten. . . nine. . . eight. . . seven. . .”I cracked one eye open.
My name still stared up at me.
“Six, five, four, three, two, one,”I rattled off in a rush.
Nothing happened. Iwasstill awake and still insane.
A sudden crunch of gravel, followed by thelowgrowl of an engine, cut through the silence. My head jerked up.
Shit.
