Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Our time together?
Is hidden.
Our relationship?
Suppressed.
Our memories?
Buried.
Deep in the dark shadows of her mind are where those things are doomed to reside for some unknown amount of time. They may occasionally peek their hooded face out when she hears a particular song or smells a familiar scent or touches a particular object; however, it’s only a possibility.
The truth is…she may never remember anything more than flashes.
She may never remember us.
What we had.
Who we were together.
How am I supposed to live like this?
How is anyone supposed to live like this?”
Closing my fist around the chip occurs in tandem with Clark continuing to chastise, “You can’t keep spending all your days in here, Weston. Wasting away. Working until you’re too exhausted to think about what once was rather than what currently is.”
“I can,” I argue on a heavy sigh. “You just don’t think I should.”
His expression shifts to a deeper scowl. “You know you shouldn’t.”
And why shouldn’t I?
Why shouldn’t I enjoy memories of a life and woman I’ll never have again?
“Weston.”
Malaise ambles itself throughout my system until my shoulders are sinking again.
And my chest threatens to collapse underneath the weight of despair.
And my spine threatens to snap from the building pressure that seems to never cease.
“Your vows, Weston William Wilcox,” my fatherlike figure begins upon his closer approaching, “were through sickness and through health. This is her sickness.”
“This is not sickness,” leaves me at a muted volume.
“W-”
“This isn’t a cold or virus or a disease. This isn’t a broken bone or a loss limb. This is…something worse.” My chip free hand attempts to give the side of my face a comforting scrub. “Much. Worse.”
“That’s a mere matter of perspective.”
“Excuse me?”
“It is always easier when comparing our pain or trials and tribulations to someone else’s to label what we’re going through as more severe than it is to simply face our own feelings of hardships and hard to swallow doldrums.” His hands fold themselves behind his back as his head tips higher. “The fact of the matter is…the agony isn’t better on the other side. Simply. Different.”
Additional despair sulks my frame.
“Bryn doesn’t remember being your wife or Wyland’s mother; however, it doesn’t change the fact that that’s what she is. That you both need her. And keeping yourself buried around the clock in moves and remodels or acquisitions and mergers helps no one. Neither of you can heal this way.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do, Clark?” The grip on my chip thoughtlessly tightens.
“She rarely leaves her room. She refuses to join me for breakfast or lunch or dinner. Gifts I’ve tried to have delivered simply sit in the hallway, untouched until housekeeping collects them in the evening. She hasn’t allowed me to be there during her doctors’ visits. She’s cancelled couple’s therapy – completely – and has only attended the mandatory sessions required by Vickers to remain an outpatient.” Frustration shoots me upward to a more defensive position. “I’ve done everything they’ve suggested to me! I’ve played songs! I’ve kept the estate covered in the freshest flowers! Had J.T. smoke his favorite cigars in the hallway! I’ve had Lucky make every fucking meal we had in the beginning of the relationship! I’ve left word searches and comic books and even worn the first shirt she ever bought me around the estate for a week like it was fucking skin! I’ve tried to show her I care! That I love her! That I’m here for her! That I’m not fucking going anywhere and all I’ve got in return is nothing!”
“I hope the irony is not lost upon you, young sir.”
My mouth hangs wide open for words to fly free that never do.
“You hid from her. She now hides from you.” His expression slightly softens. “Fight for her…and believe that she is in there…fighting for you.”
All of a sudden, Wyland comes traipsing into the room in nothing but his Batman underwear and matching cape. He plants his balled fists on his hip, kicks his head high into the air, and announces, “Betttttttime!”
It’s impossible not to erupt into laughter.
Gordonknows…the way this kid just bursts onto the scene is something he definitely got from his mother.
“Bathtime or bedtime?” questions his grandfather with a crooked grin.
“Betime, Gampi.” He waves both hands across his almost naked body. “Odiosly.”
Clark’s wide smile remains in place. “Yes. Obviously.”
“Wyyyyy!” a frazzled Jessi shrieks. “Wyyyyy!!!” Her labored breathing threatens to get me chuckling. “Ohmygod, why are there so many hallways in this house?!”
“In here,” I warmly announce, expediting her arrival.
His nanny swiftly whips into the room – out of air – in her vintage Cookie Monster t-shirt that’s most likely damp from bathtime, an activity that only his mother seems to have mastered with him. “You can’t just go running off like that, Wyland!” She blows a wavy strand of hair out of her vision in apparent frustration. “You know it’s bedtime.”