Page 10 of Pieces of Me

I’m pretty sure Zeke grew out his beard in a shorter time than it takes for the customers to complete their order. When he’s done, Zeke takes his time to shuffle his long-ass legs into the kitchen, then into his office.

Without a word, he removes the painting, enters the safe code, and opens the door for me. He moves out of the way, gesturing for me to go ahead.

I use my phone light to look inside the safe, and when the only thing I can see is gray metal, I shove my hand in there, feel around.

Hope… hope is such a fickle emotion. It comes to life just as quick as it dies, and it doesn’t allow you time in between to prepare yourself for the loss.

Heat burns behind my eyes, my nose, and as determined as I was to finish the goddamn puzzle, I’m even more determined not to release the tears, not to let them fall and slip away as if they were never mine to begin with.

Just likeHoldenwas never mine to begin with.

“Jamie…” Zeke’s voice is barely a whisper, but it penetrates my eardrums and echoes through my skull. “There’s a reason he asked you about it.”

My eyes drift shut as I turn to him, releasing the tears I tried so hard to hold on to. “I know.”

I instinctively flinch when he reaches out, wipes at the tears soaking my cheeks. “And a reason Esme left you both the house.”

“But what if—”

He pulls back, cutting me off. “What ifsare for suckers.”

A hint of a smile tugs on my lips.

He sighs. “Be careful.”

“I know the rules,” I assure, and he shakes his head.

“I mean… be careful with your heart, Jamie.”

I hug him for what feels like forever, and it’s as much of a shock to him as it is to me.

But something feels different with this goodbye. It feels more… indefinite. Because we both know what I’m about to do will either make me or break me. And there are only so many times a person can break before the damage becomes too much.

Too irreparable.

Too permanent.

He doesn’t follow me back to the RV like he usually does. I make quick work of making the RV travel-ready, and with one more glance at the rundown diner, I wipe away the liquid fear with the back of my hand and do what I always do.

What I do best…

I leave.

5

Holden

I once read that there are seven different versions of a lie. There are lies made by error, omission, restructuring, denial, minimization, exaggeration, or fabrication. And the truth?

The truth is, I don’t know which version of a lie I’m about to spill. “I’m fine, Dad.”

Dad tracks my movement from one end of the barn to the other, his arms crossed as he leans against the bench. He waits until I’ve released the wheelbarrow carrying bags of sod to ask, “Are you sure?” Then he grasps the back of his neck as he stares down at his feet—a telltale sign of his discomfort. If he’s uncomfortable having this conversation, imagine how I feel being on the receiving end of it.

Dad and I don’t “deep.” Our conversations generally consist of a few words, followed by grunts—just like the Neanderthals we are, which makes it easy to assume that all of this—the asking if I’m okay bullshit—is coming from Maggie, his girlfriend.

I’m about to inform him that he can tell her the same thing I just told him: thatI’m fine.But he speaks first. “It’s just that… I feel like… like you left a piece of yourself in Tennessee.”

That’s a big fat fuckingnope.I went there whole, and I came back the same. There was no way I was going to let Jamie’s mere existence take a part of me and rip it to shreds.

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