records had simply been his excuse to be anywhere but at home for a little while. Back in his truck, he drove slow circles on back country roads, trying to approximate the routes he and Troy Lee had driven the past couple of days. He needed time, time to try to focus on the puzzle that was Brittany’s story, time to not think about that kiss.
Time to definitely not think about the last time he’d been in bed with his wife and how that had ended up.
He took that memory and boxed it up, shut it away in his mind. Tonight’s kiss too. He didn’t need that one, either.
Damn it all, why had he listened to Troy Lee anyway? They’d been fine, or rather he had… Being numb had its advantages. They could have simply kept going along until Amy figured out for real that he wasn’t what she wanted, although hell, what difference would that make? She was worried about her mother’s reaction to a divorce.
Not his. Not her own. Her mother’s.
But one thing he knew was Amy and her family, and Charlotte Mills would want what was best for her daughter. Amy was resilient—strong and smart and a planner. If he was out of the picture, she’d simply make a new five-year plan and move on.
His headlights illuminated a street sign in the hovering dusk. Long Lonesome Road. Freaking perfect. He didn’t remember it from the hours in the car with Troy Lee, but what the hell?
After a couple of miles, the two-lane blacktop widened to a concrete bridge over the river. Rob pulled his truck to the shoulder and killed the engine. Gravel crunched under his shoes, the smooth concrete making little noise as he walked to the railing and peered over at the brown water. The river whispered rather than rushed, a deceptively slow-looking slide that concealed dark depths and wicked currents. A swimmer going in on this stretch would be nearly a mile downriver before realizing what was happening.
If he made it that long without going under for good.
Hands clasped before him, he leaned on the handrail. Somewhere he’d read that drowning was the easiest way to die. A simple act of letting the water take over, letting the water close around—
He rested his forehead on his clasped hands. What he really needed was to talk to his dad. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the sudden burning there. He’d held off crying this long, hadn’t cried over any of it, although heaven knew he’d wanted to plenty of times.
“Crying doesn’t change a thing.” The river caught the whisper and carried it away. That had been his dad’s motto after they’d lost his mom.
Jesus above, he didn’t know how to do this, to do any of this, by himself. The longing to sit on the back porch overlooking Long Pond and rock awhile, talking through his problems with his father, made his chest hurt.
On the other side of the river, thunder rumbled in the clouds piling high atop one another. He blew out a breath. Feeling sorry for himself wasn’t changing anything. Maybe he could step back and put on some objectivity, look at their marriage the way he would a set of interviews, piece the story together that way.
She didn’t want a divorce. She said she was proud of him. She didn’t see him as a bad husband. She wanted him to kiss her more often. She wanted to take things slowly.
It all added up to a woman who wanted things to work. It added up to a woman he loved who would be hurt if he let himself go under.
What he had to do was find a way to get his head straight so he could meet her halfway. In the past, whenever he needed to sort out his thoughts on anything, that meant time on the porch with his dad. He simply had to figure out how that process was going to work in the present, with his father gone.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Should have left it in the truck. With a sigh, he straightened and pulled the cell free to read the text from Troy Lee. Still owe you that beer but not tonight. See you in the AM for a run.
Maybe tomorrow he’d find out how good a
Time to definitely not think about the last time he’d been in bed with his wife and how that had ended up.
He took that memory and boxed it up, shut it away in his mind. Tonight’s kiss too. He didn’t need that one, either.
Damn it all, why had he listened to Troy Lee anyway? They’d been fine, or rather he had… Being numb had its advantages. They could have simply kept going along until Amy figured out for real that he wasn’t what she wanted, although hell, what difference would that make? She was worried about her mother’s reaction to a divorce.
Not his. Not her own. Her mother’s.
But one thing he knew was Amy and her family, and Charlotte Mills would want what was best for her daughter. Amy was resilient—strong and smart and a planner. If he was out of the picture, she’d simply make a new five-year plan and move on.
His headlights illuminated a street sign in the hovering dusk. Long Lonesome Road. Freaking perfect. He didn’t remember it from the hours in the car with Troy Lee, but what the hell?
After a couple of miles, the two-lane blacktop widened to a concrete bridge over the river. Rob pulled his truck to the shoulder and killed the engine. Gravel crunched under his shoes, the smooth concrete making little noise as he walked to the railing and peered over at the brown water. The river whispered rather than rushed, a deceptively slow-looking slide that concealed dark depths and wicked currents. A swimmer going in on this stretch would be nearly a mile downriver before realizing what was happening.
If he made it that long without going under for good.
Hands clasped before him, he leaned on the handrail. Somewhere he’d read that drowning was the easiest way to die. A simple act of letting the water take over, letting the water close around—
He rested his forehead on his clasped hands. What he really needed was to talk to his dad. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the sudden burning there. He’d held off crying this long, hadn’t cried over any of it, although heaven knew he’d wanted to plenty of times.
“Crying doesn’t change a thing.” The river caught the whisper and carried it away. That had been his dad’s motto after they’d lost his mom.
Jesus above, he didn’t know how to do this, to do any of this, by himself. The longing to sit on the back porch overlooking Long Pond and rock awhile, talking through his problems with his father, made his chest hurt.
On the other side of the river, thunder rumbled in the clouds piling high atop one another. He blew out a breath. Feeling sorry for himself wasn’t changing anything. Maybe he could step back and put on some objectivity, look at their marriage the way he would a set of interviews, piece the story together that way.
She didn’t want a divorce. She said she was proud of him. She didn’t see him as a bad husband. She wanted him to kiss her more often. She wanted to take things slowly.
It all added up to a woman who wanted things to work. It added up to a woman he loved who would be hurt if he let himself go under.
What he had to do was find a way to get his head straight so he could meet her halfway. In the past, whenever he needed to sort out his thoughts on anything, that meant time on the porch with his dad. He simply had to figure out how that process was going to work in the present, with his father gone.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Should have left it in the truck. With a sigh, he straightened and pulled the cell free to read the text from Troy Lee. Still owe you that beer but not tonight. See you in the AM for a run.
Maybe tomorrow he’d find out how good a
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