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Gen wagged again, then laid down and rested her head between her legs. A low whine crawled up Abby’s spine.
Anger swept through her, her cheeks heating, and she let it bubble up, burning away the numbness and exhaustion. “Enough, Gen. Either eat or don’t. I don’t care.”
She whirled away and threw herself onto the stool, sending it into an aggressive spin. Her foot bumped its twin with Will’s old books, stacked exactly as he’d left them three years before, never touched again. She kicked out, rocking the stool, then caught its edge in both hands, shoving it over until the whole pile tumbled to the floor.
A puff of dust rose, then settled in the morning sunlight.
Gen’s collar jingled as she pushed back into a sit, watching Abby, who stared, shocked for a moment at her own emotional display. Guilt and shame spiraled around each other in her gut, banking the fire of her fury. She slipped from her stool and knelt, lifting one book that had flown open and tucking its pages back into place before closing the cover with a gentle pat. Dust streaked her fingertips, grayish and grainy. She sneezed.
Standing, she righted the fallen stool and circled into the kitchen. She dampened a rag and returned to the jumbled books, lifting each one with reverence and wiping it down before stacking them beside her, squaring the edges with tender fingertips. When they were all pristine, she swiped the rag over the floor, then the stool as well, cleaning the mess until no trace remained.
She was awfully good at that.
Lifting the pile of books, she approached the long shelves, eyes flitting over the titles, searching for the spaces they’d once occupied, long since forgotten. She slid one into place, then another, but when she shelved the third, it wouldn’t fit. Too wide. The coals of her anger flared.
“Fine, whatever.” Her harsh voice cracked the silence. “It’s not like it matters, anyway.He’s not coming back for you.” She shoved the book lengthwise across the top of its fellows, then jammed the last few helter-skelter wherever they could fit. When the last one resisted, she whirled and threw it.
It slid across the floor, thumping into the leg of a bar stool and spinning. One corner crumpled, and the cardboard cover under the faux-leather binding peeked through. That’s what happened, she supposed, when life handed you a hard hit. It showed you what you were really made of.
Gen whined again.
What was she made of? Tears and memories, held together with cheap binding and a little gold leaf for distraction, spinning through life and wondering when the next hit would come. It fit all too well.
She was tired of life happening to her, tired of taking hits, of waiting.
He’s not coming back for you.
Hot tears pricked her eyes, but for once, she didn’t let them fall. Her anger bubbled up again, a molten heat churning her gut and flaming her cheeks. For the first time since Will’s funeral, she allowed the emotion to flow freely. At him. At herself.
Had she had plans before Will died? He’d wanted to change the world, to cure cancer. She’d wanted his dream for him, content to sit in his shadow, the woman behind the man, quiet and demure. But what had she wanted?
Him.
She’d wanted him. Ever since their first kiss she’d known they belonged together, and she’d followed wherever he led, like a lamb.
What did she want now?
Gen. She loved Gen and their work together. She loved the kids. Somehow, even in Will’s shadow, she’d made it hers. Not curing cancer—that would never be her role—but standing beside those fighting their battles. Doing good, worthwhile, important work, too.
A vision unfurled in her mind: a team of therapy dogs. Hospital dogs, first responder dogs, school dogs, court dogs. So many places could use a trained therapy dog. For comfort, for recovery, for joy and love. What if she could be more than one handler and her dog? She’d taught herself from scratch, but what if she could help others learn to do therapy work? Maybe start a non-profit, expand, and do even more.
She loved kids.
Dylan’s face flashed across her mind. What would it be like to have one of her own?
She wanted... Scott.
The realization shocked her.
The betrayal stung, but it was also a relief. She’d held so tightly to Will in the years since he’d died, cocooned, unable to move on. Unable to believe she had a right to do so. But now the cocoon that had protected her restricted her too tightly. She wanted to stretch, break free.
The thought scared her.
I think you get to be scared.Cara’s words echoed in her head.
Scary, yes. But also... freeing!
Could she rise above the fear and do it anyway? Be a whole person? Be herownperson?