In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(18)

I’m beyond feeling pain over loss anymore, or I’m sure this would feel like a kick to the gut. Instead, a tiny smile touches my lips, such a foreign sensation to me now. She’s moved on. Exactly what I told her to do.

I wish I could keep that smile for just a while longer, But when those whiskey-colored eyes—Sasha’s eyes—suddenly land on me, and her face pales, the smile drops away.

I’m sure it’s been five minutes by now. And if not? I don’t really care anymore.

I’m out the door and halfway down the walkway when I hear her shout my name. She’s running out in socked feet, her arms curled around her chest against the blistering cold. “I didn’t think you’d be here. I’m . . . sorry.”

She’s apologizing to me. It’s almost laughable. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

She searches my face for a long moment. “Still.”

I attempt to lighten the awkwardness. “Henry always did have a thing for you.”

A sheepish smile passes her lips. “Yeah, that’s what he told me. I had no idea.” Of course she didn’t. Madison has no clue how beautiful and sweet she is. “How are you? My mom said you moved home?”

“Yup.”

Her smile falls as she swallows hard and asks in a soft, sad voice, “How could you just cut me off like that?”

“I didn’t want you to hold on to hope.”

She nods, bowing her head until she can control the tears threatening. “Well . . . Happy birthday. I wanted to come by and drop a card or something off, but . . .” Her voice drifts. Madison has been there to celebrate my birthday for as long as I can remember, before she can even remember. First as friends, then as more.

Now as something lost.

I’ll never be that guy again, and what we had is really and truly gone. The simple fact that she is able to move on creates an impassable rift between us, the connection we once shared growing more distant with each day.

“Have a happy new year, Mads.” I turn and continue down the path, struggling to draw a breath, my lungs heavy.

It’s suddenly so clear. The guy Madison loved died in a terrible car crash last April.

She deserves to be happy, and it’ll never be with what was left behind.

Chapter 9

February 2009

I wake up to my dad’s bellowing voice from the kitchen. “Why am I hearing about this from a goddamn newspaper!”

I knew this was going to happen.

I can picture him sitting, leg crossed, mug of coffee steaming, the kitchen table covered with a myriad of papers. That’s how he’s always spent his Saturday mornings. I’m glad to see that at least one thing hasn’t changed.

He’s seen the notice that the courts made me publish in the local paper, after I filed my petition for my name change. Because now that I’ve realized that Cole Reynolds is dead, there’s no need to keep answering for him anymore.

I roll out of bed, pulling on a pair of track pants on my way out the door. I guess I could have warned him. But what’s the point? I knew he wouldn’t agree to it. My mom knows. It took less convincing than I expected. Maybe that’s because I’m using my middle name and her maiden name. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t know how to handle me.

I can’t hear my mom’s response but whatever it is, my dad’s not happy about it. “Supporting him with this isn’t helping him, Bonnie! He needs to deal with what happened and move on!” my dad yells as I round the corner.

“I am. Dealing with it, I mean.”

They both stop to turn and look at me. My dad’s wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt, as if he’s heading out somewhere. He hasn’t been home in weeks, and yet I see his bags sitting in the corner. He’s ready to leave again. I’m starting to wonder if it’s more about the office expansion or about the bits of conversations I’ve overheard, comments about the lawsuit from the family of that guy, Billy, and the partners not being happy with all the billing hours they’re burning, and how they’re worried that this case will look bad for the firm if clients catch wind.

I don’t know how true that is, but just the possibility weighs on me.

“By becoming Trent Emerson?” My dad throws the paper to the floor.

“By letting go of who I was.” I swiftly pick it up and tuck it under my arm. Proof for the court so they can finalize my petition.

I almost miss the head shake, it’s so subtle. “What does your therapist say about this?”

I stall with my tongue sliding over my teeth, deciding how I want to answer that. Is now a good time to tell him that I stopped going back in October, after four two-hundred-dollar sessions of the guy asking me how I feel and me telling him that I feel damn guilty and getting nowhere beyond that?

Another thing my mother knows that we haven’t enlightened my dad about.

But he’s smart enough to figure it out on his own, it would seem. He throws his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do, anymore, Cole. Please! Tell me how we can help you. Everyone else is putting their life back together and yet you don’t seem at all interested in helping yourself.” His tone, his words, the way he’s looking at me—all of it is sliding beneath my skin.

“I’m not discussing this decision. It’s mine to make and I’ve made it.”