Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

Particularly if they blame themselves. It took a lot to get me moving in the right direction. “Because if you need somebody, I have some good contacts—”

Tyler’s already shaking his head. “No, no, it’s okay. I just—I thought maybe you’d understand. That we could talk a little bit. But I understand if you’re busy.”

I am busy. But not that busy. I could spare him a few minutes, at least. Grief twisted me into something bitterly wrong, and I’ve taken years to come back from that. A long, tough climb to get to a relatively stable place. The instructions from flight attendants keep running through my head: put your mask on first before you help others. I’m not sure my mask is completely on yet. Or that oxygen is flowing.

But at the same time, I can see this kid’s damage, even if I can’t feel his pain. Maybe because he doesn’t dare feel it himself.

So I say, “Let’s go get a coffee and talk about it. Okay?”

Tyler lets out a low, shaking breath and nods. “Thank you, Mr. Cade.”

“Sam,” I tell him. “Call me Sam. What was your sister’s name?”

“Clara,” he says. “I don’t—I really don’t want to talk about her so much. Just . . . just about how you handle it. Especially when you can’t get it out of your head. You can’t, can you?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “Sometimes for hours. A couple of times for a whole day. But you’re right. It doesn’t go away.”

We walk to the small coffee area set aside for the hangar, get cups, sit. Tyler seems uncomfortable still. He finally takes his sunglasses off, and behind them he looks very young. Vulnerable. His eyes look tired, and like they’ve seen far too much. “I get angry,” he says. “About what happened to her. Is that normal?”

God, it’s so normal.

And I take a deep breath and start explaining to him why that’s bad.

I’m not sure how well I do. He’s listening. His reactions are small, but I see the significance of the slight flinch, the way he looks at his hands. He doesn’t break down, though I can almost feel how much he’d like to do that. The mask stays in place.

When he gets too close to my own wounds, I turn the conversation another direction. And when my watch buzzes a reminder, I’m surprised to find that a whole hour has gone by. The coffee in front of me is still full, and cold; Tyler’s consumed all of his. I dump mine and tell him that I really do have to go.

Tyler thanks me for my time, and doesn’t offer to shake hands this time. But just like before, he hesitates, and has one last question.

“Do you think your sister would be upset?” he asks me. “If she knew about . . .” He doesn’t finish the question; maybe he realizes it’s crossing a line. Because it is, and I know I ought to be angry about it. But somehow I’m not.

“If my sister knew I was happy with Gwen?” I guess. He nods. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’d like to think she’d want me to be happy, because I wish she was. But I don’t know.”

He nods. “Thank you, Sam. I—I’ve never talked about it before. Not like this, with someone who understands.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, and for a second I see the real suffering he’s been concealing. Then he takes his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on, and just like that, he’s armored again. “I know that wasn’t easy. Thanks for talking to me.”

He doesn’t wait for me to reply. He just turns and goes.

It feels strange, having let that conversation happen. And oddly good too. Maybe . . . maybe I’m actually starting to heal that part of myself. It’s been long enough.

But I find myself wondering if I really just helped someone, or hurt him. Because I don’t know.

I just don’t know.

It’s just about quitting time and I’m headed back home, having passed my simulations and breathing easier and feeling almost, almost back to normal. I’m halfway there when my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number and nearly let it go, but I finally hit the hands-free and answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Sam Cade.”

“You’re talking to him.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m Emory Osgood from the Tennessean.” The woman on the other end sounds young and almost artificially subdued. I’m instantly on guard, but it doesn’t sound like one of those damn robocall spammers. “I’m calling to double-check the spelling of a name, if you don’t mind. Gwen Proctor. I normally wouldn’t call, but it’s spelled two different ways in the text I have.” Why the hell is she calling me? I consider asking, but I spell it out for her. Before I can ask what the story is that she’s writing, she hurries on. “Oh, thank you so much. It’s really important we get the announcement right, of course. And could you confirm the name of the funeral home?”

My mouth goes dry. I don’t think; I just pull my truck off the road and into a grocery store parking lot and the first empty spot I see. My hand is shaking as I put the engine in park. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m calling about the death notice,” she says. “For Ms. Proctor?” She sounds taken aback now. Uncertain. My heart’s pounding and I feel clammy. Sick.

“What happened to her?” I ask. I can’t even recognize my voice—it sounds like a stranger’s. “When?”

“Oh, sir, I am so sorry, I thought—wait, didn’t you submit the notice yourself? This isn’t supposed to happen, I just—I don’t know what to say. I apologize for doing this to you, are you okay?” She sounds utterly horrified.

“Am I—” I bite back the sudden fury I feel. My eyes are burning. Whole body shaking. “What the fuck happened?”

“I—” I hear her take a deep breath. “Sir, I really don’t have all that information. I have a computer submission via email that has