Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85950 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Guilt for thoughts I couldn’t control bounce around inside my head as I work traffic for Mike Hodson while he deals with the state police when they arrive. There’s certain protocol when dealing with such things, but it never gets easier. I’ve seen Mike refer to a list more than once to make sure that everything is taken care of, his hands trembling as he reads down the thing.
All accidents are horrible. There’s no discrimination when it’s flesh against metal. The metal wins every time. I’m a firm believer that all life is precious, but it hurts a little more when young people and children are involved.
I can’t even speak to Hayes when he pulls up in one of the smaller fire trucks the town has to spray off the road.
By the time the scene is cleared, I feel like I’ve run a hundred miles in the midday sun without a drink of water, although Dr. Millway sent one of his nurses to the scene with a cooler full of iced down water and a couple of sandwiches for all of us. I couldn’t stomach the food, but I guzzled several of the bottles of water.
I’m late getting to the bar where Adalynn is always waiting for me when I have late shifts. I try to get there early because I know she always has to get to the bakery early to prepare for the before-work rush. We do our best to keep the same schedule even though the bakery isn’t opened on Mondays.
I want to fall to my knees in relief when I pull up and see her car in the parking lot. There are days I feel as if I need her more than others, although that ache for her never fully goes away. Over the years, I’ve learned to get it down to a mostly low hum, one that vibrates just under the surface of my skin. This morning made it hum a little more forcefully, but right now, after the day I’ve had, nearly forces my feet into a run after I park and climb out of my patrol unit.
The bar isn’t busy. Most people are home, getting ready for the start of a new week, but I don’t know that I’d change how I act if it was packed wall-to-wall.
I turn in the direction of the table she’s always sitting at and arrow in her direction.
She stands, her face a mask of understanding. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s already heard about the accident. We’d been out there for hours working the scene. I’m sure people in town were talking about it not long after it happened. Such conversations are quick to spread in a small town.
I pull her to my chest, and she doesn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around me. What happened this morning has no bearing on this moment. My need for her is different at the moment. I need to feel her heart beating against my chest. I need her warm breath fluttering over my skin. I need to know that she’s alive and well.
She’d be here for me just like this even if I had gone straight to work instead of stopping by the bakery. This isn’t about that.
“Are you okay?” she asks when I finally manage to untangle myself from her.
I stare at her lips, something I’ve always fought against. It always felt like a confession I wasn’t ready to make because I knew the fallout would be more than I could handle.
I nod but can’t seem to find the words to lie to her. Adalynn never grills me about work. She knows that if there’s something going on at the office or in town that I’m comfortable talking about, then I’ll bring it up. There are a lot of things I do in my day that have no real bearing on my life. It’s routine or boring. Some things are funny and I can’t wait to tell her, but days like today need to be filed away. Shifts like the one I’ve had are the types of days that end careers. They’re the ones that make you wake up in the middle of the night sweating and begging for relief. They have the potential to harden you or break you.
I lean into her touch when she presses her palm to my cheek. She knows I’m not a hundred percent, but she won’t argue with me about it.
“How about breakfast?” I ask.
Her eyes drop to my mouth before she speaks, and it sends a thrill of possibility up my spine.
“Why not a late dinner?”
Her voice is low. If I weren’t watching her lips form the words, they would’ve gotten lost in the guitar solo blaring from the jukebox or among the chatter circulating around us.
“I’m still in my window of fertilization,” she says with an even lower tone, her cheeks still pink as if she’s embarrassed to have this conversation with me, even after what happened this morning.