Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Do we have to drag Donovan into this conversation?” he asks. “Even in death, the bastard won’t let me be.”
“Did you two ever get along?” I ask. “I know you don’t want to talk about him, but I’m just curious if there was ever a time when the two of you didn’t hate each other.”
Lachlan picks the pop-top off his can before tossing it aside. “There was a time I thought he hung the moon.”
My heart tightens, and I gather in a long, slow breath as I wait for him to finish.
“Sooner or later, we all find out what kind of person he truly is,” he adds. “I just happened to find out a hell of a lot sooner than everyone else. Anyway.”
I take his hint to change the subject and return to his dating history. “I find it interesting, though, that you’re drawn to ordinary and average . . . when the life you live is anything but.”
“You psychoanalyzing me, Blue Eyes?” He paints a smile on his face, though there’s a thread of sadness in his voice.
“Just making an observation.” I yawn and check the time. “Anyway, I need to go over some emails and work on some names. My next client wants something organic and out there—their words.”
He cocks his chiseled jaw, sniffing through his nose. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” Rising, I give his shoulder a squeeze. “Good talk.”
His mouth rises on one side. “Yeah. Good talk.”
I head inside and settle into my makeshift office, though I’m pretty sure I could sit out there for hours and shoot the breeze with him. Something about his presence is grounding and makes me forget about life for a while—maybe it’s the depth in his gaze or the occasional semblance of a smile he offers or the way he seems so sure of who he is when some people live their entire lives never knowing.
Aside from a handful of passersby, it felt like we had the whole world to ourselves.
I think of what Berlin said yesterday, about being in Lachlan’s class but falling for Donovan instead because he was more her type. While I still hardly know the man, if I had been here back then, it would’ve been Lachlan.
No question.
EIGHTEEN
LACHLAN
metanoia (n.) the journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, or way of life
I finish installing the first wall of cabinets Wednesday afternoon, and I stop for a lunch break and to take a minute to stand back and admire the progress. Anneliese chose a vintage-inspired dark green—a bold choice, but it works. The cabinets are decent quality, too, soft-close doors and dovetailed joints, made of solid white oak with a smooth painted finish. I should be able to wrap up the other half of the installation by the end of the day if I work straight through until night. Once the counters and appliances are in, this room should be in good working order—and that much closer to being finished.
I grab a bottled water, wipe the sweat off my brow, and take it all in.
It’s nothing like the kitchen of my childhood. Anneliese completely reconfigured the layout, making it more functional and moving the sink under the window, where it looks out onto the backyard. My mother would’ve loved this arrangement. When she wasn’t reading or chasing after us, she was in the kitchen, making every meal from scratch. She was traditional in every sense of the word.
I think of what Anneliese said last night, that I’m drawn to ordinary women when my life is anything but. Maybe on a deeper level, I’m chasing the very thing I lost—the security and safety that I knew for the first nine years of my life.
Taking a swig of water, I try to imagine what my mom would think of Anneliese. She’s anything but traditional. She’s quirky and naive, wears her heart on her sleeve, asks way too many questions, and has an addiction to busyness. I bet Mom—or the idea I have of her, anyway—would be amused.
I finish my lunch and check my phone, listening to a voice mail from the repair shop informing me the replacement window is in. Scrolling through my messages, I find a few from friends back in the UK asking when I’m coming back, one from Lynnette asking how things are going, and then a third from Anneliese—a picture of an open book, with her finger pointing to a word.
I zoom in to get a closer look . . . eccedentesiast.
ANNELIESE: I was paging through this book today out of sheer boredom and came across this word that I thought you might like, so I looked it up. It means someone who hides pain behind a smile.
I write back.
ME: What are you implying?
ANNELIESE: Not implying anything, just thought it was pretty and that maybe you could use it in one of your stories.