Page 77 of When We Had Forever
He curses under his breath. “It’s notfine. Someone should be there with you. Someone who can...” He makes a strangled sound.
“What?”
“Keep you safe.”
I sit up. I don’t think I’m imagining the panic edging his voice. As if he truly, genuinelycares.
“I want to see you,” he says abruptly. “Face-to-face.”
I frown. “What? You want to meet me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right now. Where are you, exactly? This is a western Washington area code, so you can’t be that far away.”
I struggle to cobble together a response. “I’m up near Skykomish. It’s an hour and a half from Seattle, at least.”
“Okay, so it’s ten thirty now,” he says.
I shake my head. “This is crazy.”
“No. My brother’s widow is holed up in a cabin all by herself while a fucking bear prowls around outside, and meanwhile, I’m here, drinking Scotch and feeling sorry for myself and doing nothing even remotely useful.That’scrazy.”
For some reason, I latch on to the absolute least important part of that statement. “You’re drinking Scotch?”
“Always.”
I wince. I wish he hadn’t named the same drink Michael once favored, but I have no doubt it’s one of those twin things, since on a biological level, they’re actually the same person. “How many have you had? Are you too drunk to drive?”
“This is my second, and I’m only halfway through, so no, I’m not drunk. And I’ll put this glass down right now if you give me your address.”
I cast about as though I might find someone here to tell me what to do. My gaze catches on the lantern, which still burns steadily, but it offers no answers.
Nothing here but an empty room—so empty I can feel the weight of it, dragging at my limbs.
“All right,” I say, surprising myself, and rattle off the cabin’s address.
A jangle sounds—car keys, I’m assuming. “Great. I’ll see you in an hour.”
“No. You won’t get here until midnight. It’s an hour and a half.”
“Nah. Not the way I drive.”
I start to caution him about the road’s snaking curves, but it’s too late. He’s already hung up.
AFTER
While I wait for Grayson, the hum beneath my skin returns full force. I try to work it off by pacing, then, when that doesn’t work, by downing more wine. As a last resort, I take the hottest shower I can tolerate. I decide I need to wash today’s dirt off regardless, though I have trouble explaining why I put makeup on afterward.
I pace some more. The buzz rises to a fever pitch.
I am not, I think,even remotely prepared to face a clone of my dead husband.
But after sixty-seven minutes of agonizing anticipation, when a knock cuts through the percussive burble of the fire and I swing the door open to find six feet and three inches of man on my doorstep, my first thought is not that he looks like Michael.
Nope. He’s even more attractive.
