Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 108173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
She folded it carefully and placed it in her desk drawer, but every time she had a break during the long day, she would take it out to read it again.
By the end of the day, she still hadn’t decided what to do about it, and transferred it into her handbag to take home with her.
She’d moved into the house in Bantry Bay about a month ago, preferring it to the massive, extravagant mansion in Constantia. It was also a lot closer to her studio.
This house, while large, had a cozy beach house appeal to it. And even though it stirred up too many memories of Gramps, they were largely good memories and she managed to keep her feelings of betrayal and resentment at bay. She’d had parts of the place redecorated before moving in—her room, the living room, and kitchen—areas where she would spend the most time. She’d fashioned it in a way that made it feel more like her home than Gramps’s holiday bolthole. And she was settling in nicely.
Once at home, she kicked off her shoes, poured a glass of shiraz and padded, barefoot, to the living room where she sank onto the massive sofa, with her legs tucked under her. Glass in one hand and Ben’s letter in the other.
She read it again, even though she knew it by heart now. She didn’t know why she was so fascinated by this confusing and pathetic little letter.
She just… was.
She finished her glass and got up to fetch the bottle for a refill. While she was up, she found a pen and some note paper as well. She sat down with her refilled glass of wine and after taking another fortifying sip, began to write.
Ben hated going home these days. He worked longer hours just to avoid it. Got up before dawn in the mornings and returned home after midnight. The business had never been in better shape, but Ben couldn’t say the same about himself.
He couldn’t stand the echoing silence when he walked through the door at night. The place felt like a fucking tomb, devoid of life and joy. He tossed his wallet and keys into the empty fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and tried not to think about the morning he’d found Lilah’s rings in that bowl. The morning his life had taken a nosedive down the toilet.
Today’s post had been neatly placed on the counter beside the bowl, Trudy was always so damned old school conscientious about doing that, even though the entire pile would likely consist of junk. He picked it up and lifted his arm to yeet it into the trash can when the small, pink envelope right at the top of the pile caught his attention.
His breath snagged and he dumped the rest of the pile onto the counter, while grabbing up the envelope with shaky, eager hands. He was very familiar with that small, neat handwriting. He’d seen it often enough over the years when helping Lilah with her math homework, or her college assignments. She’d never actually asked for his help, but he told himself it was to stop her vocal moping around his office, whenever she encountered a problem she had difficulty with.
He tore the envelope open, and only afterwards regretted not taking more care with it, hating that he’d torn through her pretty, but practical—kind of like the woman herself—handwriting.
That was it, three lines, in response to the letter he hadn’t even been sure she would receive. Or look at if she did receive it. The letter he’d written impulsively after a—lonely—tequila shot too many. The contents of which he couldn’t quite recall, but knew had to be somewhat maudlin if they accurately reflected his constant state of being these days.
His lips tilted at the corners as he stared at her curt response.
If she wanted reasons to stop hating him, he would damned well give them to her…
He would just have to figure out what those reasons were.
But this was communication. It was better than the weeks of silence that had come before it.
Ben picked up his phone and opened up the browser. He stared at the screen for a moment before doing something he knew he should’ve done weeks—no years—ago, he typed Lilah’s name into the search engine and immediately navigated to her website.
He browsed through her gallery, breath stuttering in and out of his lungs as he stared at the colorful, creative pictures of all those happy, furry faces. He made a quiet sound of disappointment when he reached the last image and immediately called up a broader search on the internet, where he found hundreds of other pictures.
Images Lilah or her friends had put on social media. He immediately followed her Instagram account—again, something he should have done years ago—noting that he was but one of hundreds of thousands of followers.