The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

though his eyes betray concern. He asks me if his promise held. That things would turn out okay for me.

I tell him I don’t yet know the answer to that, but I hope so.

He asks if I want to talk about anything.

Yes, I tell him. But I can’t. Not right now.

I step back in and kiss him, lightly, a brush of the lips, for if I pressed any harder, I might not ever leave. I thank him for letting Max stay here.

No worries, he says.

I almost laugh. Every molecule of my being is some kind of worry. I struggle to remind myself that just before coming here, I was convinced everything would be okay.

I stare at Alec a moment longer, reach out, and grab his hand. He grabs me back.

I take a deep breath, and when I let it out, I tell Alec I’m leaving and never coming back.

If this surprises him, I don’t see it.

I ask him if he’d ever think about getting into a car and driving west. The Midwest, specifically. Maybe to visit me, or if he could ever figure out some kind of custody plan, maybe to move there with Micah. I say I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but all I’m looking for is an answer, not a promise. I just want to know if I’m allowed to hold on to that little bit of hope, something to cling to during the upcoming time of struggle.

He answers with just two words, and ones that don’t form an empty promise.

Anything’s possible.

I soak in his response for a few seconds, letting it warm me.

Then I say goodbye and leave, because I simply have to.

I don’t want to leave Alec, but god knows I’m ready to leave this town.

Just one more stop first.

Sixty-Three

9:31 a.m.

Colin slept in, a luxury he rarely allowed himself, though there was no pleasure in it today. Extra sleep didn’t much help when it was riddled with nightmares. Or, worse, fleeting bursts of hope that everything was okay, only to have reality kick him in the groin and tell him in no uncertain terms that his world was, in fact, completely fucked.

He missed the hot-breakfast hours at the inn, but Franklin and Keith had left some coffee out along with an assortment of pastries. Colin drank three cups and picked at a blueberry muffin. Then he shaved, showered, and dressed, wishing he had a uniform to put on. He missed the days when he wore a uniform. If he had his blues, a gun on his hip, and the hard brim of a trooper hat over his face, he’d be a lot more confident about the visit he was planning to make.

On his way out, he found Franklin reading the newspaper on a love seat in a small sitting room at the front of the house. A fat cat—long, white fur and eyes squinted deep in happiness—lazed on the neighboring cushion. Colin didn’t remember there being a cat.

“You’re surely not going out in this mess,” Franklin said.

“Yeah, planning to.”

“Roads still being worked on. Heck, I didn’t even get today’s paper yet. This is yesterday’s. Driving’s going to be tough.”

“I’ve seen worse in Wisconsin,” Colin said.

“But you haven’t dealt with New Hampshire drivers. The only folks who are going to be out on the road are emergency services and stubborn fools convinced they can drive in anything.”

Colin managed a weak smile. “Got someone to visit.”

“Must be someone special.”

Colin nodded. “Yeah. I suppose so. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Our pleasure. Be seeing you later?”

Franklin said this in a way that surprised Colin. As if there was a strong possibility Colin would never be seen by anyone ever again.

“I wouldn’t miss your dinner,” Colin said. “If it’s going to be anything like last night.”

Franklin smiled. “It will be.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay then.”

Colin walked outside and spent ten minutes getting the snow off his car. Then he got inside, turned on the ignition, and breathed a fog of frost into the air.

It was cold.

It was so goddamned cold.

Sixty-Four

10:34 a.m.

It takes twenty minutes and some slippery turns, but I make it to the house at the edge of the town. Seems appropriate that this place is in a distant orbit of Bury. Far enough outside the ecosystem of the town, but still just within the weakest pull of its gravity.

I navigate the Suburban down a long road that’s probably dirt but currently snow. I pass only two other houses, each set back down its own lengthy stretch of driveway. Unlike the planned neighborhoods in most of Bury, the houses out here sit on several acres of land, but they aren’t farms. Just a smattering of homes with ample land and enough trees to feel cut off from the world.

“Where are we going?” Max asks, and the question is bigger than he could possibly imagine.

I want to tell him that once we leave Bury, we’re headed back to Wisconsin, toward a hard life but the life we’re supposed to have. Free from lies and deceit. Free from the crushing weight of the past. That he’ll finally know his real mother, and in my blistering vulnerability, in the light of my shame and self-forgiveness, I will be fully present for him for the first time in my life.

I don’t say these things. Soon.

“Just one last stop,” I say, summarizing all my thoughts of the future in those four little words.

It’s the third and last house on the road I seek. As I creep closer, it unfolds into view.

It’s a pretty house, in a simple way. A two-story front-gabled farmhouse, white-slatted siding matching the snow and camouflaging the house so much that the only dominant feature is the pitched roof, gray and steep, with a brick chimney rising from one side of the distant end. No smoke comes from it.

On the outside, it’s a pleasant house. But I suspect there’s no lack of sadness and despair on the inside.

I don’t dare pull down the driveway; it’s taken enough overcoming of my fears