Page 59 of The Lies Always Told (Baker Oaks #4)

TWENTY-EIGHT

AFTERGLOW

This Town, Niall Horan Cara and Manny looked everywhere in Baker Oaks.

She’s not answering anyone’s calls. It’s as if her phone has been off all day.

I called Abraham, and he asked Bee, but nothing.

She wasn’t anywhere we thought to look until I heard her voice loud and clear in my head.

What’s your favorite place in the world, Gus? This is mine.

I’m ashamed it took me as long as it did to figure it out, but I should’ve known.

I go there when I want the rest of the world to be quiet, or when I want to escape for a few days.

Please don’t shut it all off. Please don’t turn it all off. Please don’t give into the pain. Please, Nellie.

Pulling up to the driveway of the beautiful wooden cabin hidden between the trees, I see Nellie’s car parked right up front. Thank God. I grab my phone to text Manny before I go in.

Me:

I found her. I’ll keep you posted, but please don’t ask where.

Manny

Is she okay?

Is she? I don’t know. At least not yet. I’m not sure what I’m walking into, but I’m not telling that to Manny.

Me:

I’ll keep you posted.

There. Not a lie, but also not the entire truth. I walk up the wooden steps to the porch and lift the frog figurine where Nellie grabbed the key the last time she was here. I’m going to knock first, and hopefully, she’ll answer, but if not, I’m ready to walk through those doors and get to her.

I knock. Once. Twice. And wait. Okay, three seconds, that’s enough.

I open the door and immediately hear the TV playing.

There’s fighting and screaming on whatever is playing, but I can’t figure out what it is.

I close the door behind me and walk in to find the last thing I was expecting.

Nellie’s lying on the couch, her eyes closed and her mouth open.

What the fuck? I stop myself from running to her.

I need to assess the situation first. The soft snores, the rise and fall of her chest, her fingers moving slightly tell a part of the story—she’s sleeping.

She’s not dead, just sleeping. She’s breathing.

She stayed. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in hours.

Is this what it feels like? Is this what it feels like when people say when you truly love someone, you can’t imagine your life without them?

Because the way my chest has tightened, the way my throat has felt like I can’t swallow, the way I feel like I haven’t been able to take a full breath since Manny called, it has nothing to do with my heart or HAE and everything to do with the love I have for the woman in front of me.

I stop for a moment and take the whole scene in.

She’s clearly sleeping, but she’s, what?

Too tired? Too overwhelmed? Too sad? Her eyes are swollen, her cheeks red.

She’s been crying, that’s for sure, but when has she not cried in these past few days?

A big shirt is swallowing her body, keeping every inch of her but her legs covered.

Is that my T-shirt? It sure as hell looks like it.

I should love the way it looks on her, but damn it, Nellie, why didn’t you call me?

Why wrap yourself with an object that belongs to me and not me ?

What is she holding? Is that a vodka bottle? It sure is. She’s drunk . The chocolate wrappers around her body answer the unspoken question of whether she ate something or not. She looks anything but peaceful, and my heart breaks.

I get closer, moving the bottle from her hand, and she complains with a grunt. I move the hair off her face, sliding a strand behind her ears. “Hey, Trouble,” I whisper, trying not to spook her.

“The door was big enough for both of them,” she mumbles, or at least that’s what I think she says.

“What?”

“I couldn’t save him, but she could’ve saved him,” she adds.

What is she talking about? The movie is so loud, I turn around and finally pay attention to what she’s watching: ‘Titanic’.

The door, of course. I turn the TV off and grab her under her arms, helping her sit up.

She’s in between asleep and awake, mumbling words I can barely discern.

I manage to sit her up, but she collapses over my chest. How much did she drink?

As I remove the blanket from her legs, there’s a crumpled-up paper under it. I grab it, open it, and gasp at what I read .

I lost my brother. I lost my parents. I lost my school. I lost you. Is this what you wanted, Ms. Thompson? Well, congratulations. I’ll never see you again.

What the fuck? Is this why she’s like this? She’s completely out of it. I pick her up, cradling her body against me, and drag her to the shower, opening the faucet with water as cold as it’ll go and bring us both inside the stall.