Page 35 of The Clover Chapel (Jamison Valley 2)
“You want something to drink?” Nick asked.
“What do you have?”
“Beer. Whiskey. Water.”
“Whiskey, please.” There was no way I was going to make it through tonight’s conversation without alcohol, and since I wasn’t a huge beer drinker, whiskey would have to do.
As Nick moved to the kitchen, I walked toward a set of bookshelves at the back of the room, next to the wooden staircase that led to the second floor.
Nick’s book collection surprised me. I hadn’t figured him for a reader but the shelves proved me wrong. He had quite a few classics as well as some more recent thrillers. I also noticed a couple of thick automotive texts on the bottom shelf.
A long shelf in the middle was completely dedicated to framed photos. All of the pictures were small, but there were so many packed onto the shelves, I couldn’t see the ones in the back.
A few of the pictures showed a younger Nick. In one, he was with a group of men all wearing leather vests and standing next to a line of big motorcycles. In another, he was on a bench with a beautiful brunette woman, another boy at her other side.
The remaining pictures were of the Nick I knew, with his messy hair and full beard. In one, he and three other men were wearing green jumpsuits. Behind him were the remains of a completely burned forest with black trees sticking out of the scorched earth.
Sliding some of the pictures to the side, I started examining the ones hidden toward the back. My eyes caught on a small, unframed picture tucked into the corner joint of the shelf. I grabbed its edge and pulled it free from the wood.
I gasped when the light hit the photo. It was a picture of me from Las Vegas.
I was sleeping on a white pillow. My hair was a wreck, sticking out all over the place. I was still in makeup from the previous night and it was smudged on my eyelids. My lips were red and puffy from a night of kissing Nick. I looked like a mess. But even in sleep, I’d looked happy.
Tears filled my eyes and the picture blurred.
Nick had taken a picture of me the morning before he’d left me alone at the Bellagio. And he’d kept it all this time. The edges of the photo were worn and wrinkled, like he had held it in his hands and studied it countless times. It showed the same wear and age as our wedding photo that I’d kept tucked away.
“Why?” I whispered to the picture.
“Because you’re my wife,” Nick said behind me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we belong to each other.”
He had said those exact same words right after we had been married, right before his most blatant lie. When he had promised that we’d make our relationship work. The fact that he would throw them out there again made me instantly angry.
I spun around. “You said that to me once before. I liked it the first time. Now, not so much. Word of advice? Don’t reuse your Vegas material.”
His jaw clenched and he took a deep breath through his nose. “Drink this,” he clipped, shoving a glass of whiskey in my face. “And calm the fuck down.”
I huffed and rolled my eyes. This was going to be a long night.
“Come sit down,” he said, walking to the living room couch.
I sank into an oversized leather chair opposite the couch and took a long sip of my whiskey, grimacing as the amber liquor burned a path down my throat.
“Would you like me to cut that with some water?” Nick asked, resting his elbows on his thighs.
“No,” I coughed. “It’s fine. Explanation, please. Let’s get this over with.”
“Fine. Did you see that picture with the woman and two kids on the shelf?”
I nodded.
“That was my mom with me and my younger brother,” he said. “She died when I was sixteen.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
