Page 23 of Nothing But It All
I pull my attention back to the road—more specifically to the Firefly Cabin. Even more specifically, to the silver pickup truck backed up to the front door.
What in the actual hell ...
My jaw drops as two male bodies that I recognize like the back of my hand exit the cabin.
My head whips to my daughter. Her eyes sparkle.
“Don’t be mad,” she says, holding a finger in the air between us.
“Madeline Lauren Reed, what the—”
“Hey!You’re here!” she shouts.
The door slams shut as my daughter jogs across the lawn toward her brother ...and her father.
Michael waves at Maddie, happier to see his sister than he’s ever been. He also looks like he’s been expecting us.
Jack, on the other hand, does not.
My husband stands on the other side of his truck, his forearms resting along the bed. His bare shoulders glimmer under a coat of sweat. And as our son and daughter reach into the back seat of the truck and haul out what appears to be the usual cabin supplies—including my designated Story Brook bag—Jack’s gaze settles on me.
I stare at him through the shade from the giant oak tree separating our cabin from Harvey’s. Everything seems to pause as soon as our eyes meet, as if the world is waiting to see if we will blow up on each other or act like adults.
I can’t do either at the moment. My heart cracks down the center.He came without me.
Maddie walks around the truck, saying something to Jack that grabs his attention. He bends down as she wraps her arms around his neck like she has every day since she could move her arms. He squeezes her back just like he has every day since the warm May evening she was born.
I close my eyes. I imagine the heat of his breath, the sturdiness of his body—the comfort in his presence.
The safety ... the permanence of us.
And I wish for one second that those things still mattered. That they still were worth all the squabbles of life.
Then I look back up, and the kids are gone. It’s just Jack watching me, waiting on me to fire the first shot.
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER SIX
LAUREN
Here goes nothing.
I fling open the car door, the motion a touch more theatrical than I intend. Pine-scented air drifts from the trees and mixes with the earthiness that I’ve loved about Story Brook since the first time I came here two decades ago. But instead of pausing, extending my arms, and making a circle while relishing the start of our favorite time of the year, I march across the lawn toward Jack.
He doesn’t move. His back is against the lowered tailgate, stone-cut biceps crossed over his hard chest, like I’ve disturbed him on purpose.
Blood pumps through my veins. I cling to the adrenaline spiking through my system. Being angry is easier to manage than being sad.
But it stings.Oh, how it stings.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stopping a solid ten feet away from him.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
I exhale, the sound ragged and rough. “Why are you here?”
His eyes narrow and slowly,oh so slowly, he turns toward the truck.
