Page 3 of Peripheral Vision (Tethered in Darkness Duet #1)

That’s the only time he would shut down. And after a while I just learned to stop asking because I could tell that he was in pain too.

I make it back to my truck; a pretty, white, eight-year-old Ford F-150, and place the dress in the back seat before closing the door and deciding to walk to the bookstore.

I hit the lock button on my key fob as I walk away and wait for the notorious beep letting me know that it is, indeed, secure.

I hit it again for good measure. Not that I have anything worth stealing besides a few empty water bottles and snack wrappers, but old habits die hard.

It’s one of the many that was instilled in me.

Halfway to the bookstore I realize I should’ve also left my jacket with the dress because the heat is becoming unbearable in the Virginia afternoon sun.

This time of year sucks. Cool enough in the mornings to pull a long sleeve on, but hot enough in the afternoon to remind you that summer isn’t quite done with us yet, even as we roll into fall.

Hello September. It’s sweltering, even where it’s tied off on my hips over my cut-offs.

Fortunately, the AC that greets me a few minutes later is my saving grace.

I breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of pages both weathered and new, as I determine what to buy. The owner, Delia, a sweet older lady in her sixties who also happens to know me by name, greets me.

“Oh, Dylan, I heard about your father. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?” She approaches me to give me a hug, which I gladly return. I’m not much for physical touch from others, but have a select few people I don’t mind it from, Delia being one of them.

“As can be expected. I’m not entirely convinced he’s gone yet.

I just don’t feel like it’s maybe hit me the way news like that would be expected to affect someone.

I’m not sure how to answer that. Is that horrible?

You’d think I’d be swimming in my own tears right now.

But more than anything, I think I’m just afraid.

” She releases me from the hug, only moving her hands to grip the sides of my arms.

“Grief is not a linear process, Dylan. Everybody does it in their own way, in their own time. I don’t think there is a rhyme or reason for its stages.

But if there is one thing I can leave you with, it’s this…

Gi ve sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.”

“Macbeth…” I smile grimly.

“Please know you do not have to go through this alone. I know that not everybody you desired to come to the funeral is, but you still have other people who care about you and your well-being, and who loved your father. Regardless of whatever it is that you may be feeling… you can always come visit with me and I’ll listen.

Or I’m always happy to come to you. You’ve been coming here long enough; I’ve taken a decent liking to ya.

” She winks, bringing a strained laugh to my throat.

“Just don’t sit in the shadows and wither away.

Whether you vocalize exactly what it is affecting you or whether you talk about the things that make you happy, anything is better than nothing. It’s a path forward.”

“Thank you, Del.” She drops her hands from my side completely.

“Anytime, dear. Now go pick out several books, they’re on the house.”

Lifting my brows I ask, “Won’t the owner have a problem with that?”

“What the owner doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She chuckles as she walks to the back, leaving me to the shelves and the few patrons that wander about.

Twenty minutes later, I approach the checkout with four new books in hand and not a clue where I’m going to put them.

Not when I’ve already started slowly packing away my things in lieu of the fact that I’ll ideally be moving soon.

Granted, I don’t even know the kind of space I’ll have when I do that.

But right now, I’m only focused on drowning out the roaring in my head and the loneliness in my soul, and a good book is one of the few ways I know how to do that.

Picking up and scanning one of my books, Delia expresses her delight at the choice. “This one is delightful. Nothing but pure filth. Brings me back to my youth, if you know what I mean,” she says, wagging her brows at me. I’m pretty positive I turn bright red at the innuendo. Dirty old woman .

“Your husband is a lucky man, Del.”

She scans the next three books, placing them in a bag before handing me my gifts. “And I make sure he knows it. Have a good day, dear. Remember, don’t be afraid to reach out your hand.”

“Thank you. I’m actually leaving for Virginia Tech once everything is wrapped up with the funeral and I have my I’s dotted and T’s crossed to make it work. But I promise I will come and see you before then, and I’ll be back to visit hopefully.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says as she turns to the next customer in line and begins to ring them up.

I return to my truck, unlock it, and climb into the front seat, placing my bag of books on the passenger side before looking at the clock.

I take the opportunity of the few hours of daylight left to go to the beach, putting off my other responsibilities, like looking for a place to live and making sure I actually eat something.

I stroll up and down the coast watching other families, my heart suddenly aching for my lack of one, at the knowledge that it’s only Alaska and I now, when I suddenly recognize what my fear is from.

It isn’t only the fear of moving on without my dad in my life, but the fact that I know when reality does hit me, it’s going to hurt like a bitch.

And that in and of itself makes me afraid to let anyone in.

Because letting someone in offers the price and the pain of losing them, too.

I kick at the sand as a breeze causes a shiver to roll over me, and I realize that I’ve lost more time than I anticipated as the sun starts to begin its descent to the horizon. Inhaling a deep breath of the sweet and salty air, I put my jacket back on before I head home.

It’s roughly a twenty-minute drive from the beach back to military housing.

As I get out of my truck, the sky is covered in shades of pinks and purples as night gets ready to make an appearance.

I grab the bag of books from the passenger seat, and as I open the door to the back, I notice that my dress is missing.

It didn’t just fall off the seat onto the floor, no.

It's not in the truck at all, and it certainly didn’t fall out when I opened the door.

“Where the hell is it?” I could have sworn I locked the door.

I know I did. But my truck doesn’t show signs of anyone breaking in either and nothing else is missing or out of place.

So maybe I didn’t? I am losing my mind. I scratch my head, double and triple checking again before slamming the door and marching to my house.

Unlocking the front door, which I most definitely did lock, I pull out my cell phone and dial Thea.

She picks up on the third ring. “What’s up, Dyl? Did you find a dress? You didn’t send me pictures,” she pouts.

“Yeah, about that… it’s missing.” I go inside and close the door, making sure to confirm that I locked not only the deadbolt, but the doorknob lock too. Alaska greets me at the doorway, her tail wagging.

“Missing? Like it got stolen, or?”

“That’s the thing. I know I locked my truck. At least I think I did. I thought I heard the beep. And there was no sign of breaking and entering.” I bend down to scratch her head before I walk into the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter and leaning over it, placing my hand on my forehead.

My friend hums before she speaks. “Then you had to have accidentally left it unlocked. There isn’t another explanation. Maybe some teenage girls walked by, saw it, and thought it would be perfect for homecoming. Or maybe they just wanted to be rebellious. I know I did when I was their age.”

“That does not surprise me. I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Do you have any suggestions for natural sleep remedies at all, or a recommendation for a doctor I could go see to get a prescription?”

“Yeah, I’ll look into it and send you some. Just try to unwind for now. I’ll help you go look for a new dress tomorrow. I’m getting another call though, I’ll talk to you later.” Before I have a chance to respond, she hangs up on me .

I quickly decide to heat up some leftovers, too exhausted to make anything new, and take them to bed with me.

I’m thinking of enjoying them with a glass of wine in my tub.

But as I walk upstairs and into my bedroom, I go still, the plate slipping from my hand and shattering on the hardwood floor beneath me.

Words fail me as I stare at what lays on my bed.

The dress.