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“I’m enjoying myself,” I confess. Saying I loved anything felt too dangerous. Once the words were spoken—about a person, a thing, a place, or anything—it could be taken away. I don’t need a shrink to recognize that fear. All my adult life, I’ve been terrified to allow an attachment. Except for Lauren. She’s the only person I let in, and even she was almost taken from me.
And getting her out of Jeremy’s clutches hurt me in the end anyway.
“You seem to have fun when you’re helping out,” Marian comments.
“Because it is fun.”
“You don’t miss the classrooms?” she asks carefully.
I do and don’t. This place is so beautiful, so idyllic, that I can see myself living here and being happy in some way or another. On the other hand, I feel like I’m shunned here, cast away from the job that used to define me.
I can’t reply honestly. Speaking up about why going back to my former school isn’t something I’m ready for yet. The second I tell Marian, Lauren will know. And that’s not something that I want to happen.
“Never mind,” Marian says and stands from her hammock. “I won’t push.”
“Why do you ask?” I shield my face from the sunlight as I peer up at her.
“Because I can tell something is missing in your life.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Not you, too.”
“What?” she asks with a smile.
“Are you going to ask me why I won’t give Hayes anything past a hello?” He’s been here with his crew, preparing to lay the foundation for the new house next door.
“Well, he isn’t hard on the eyes.”
Like that’s all that matters.
She shrugs. “I can just tell, Aubrey. Something bothers you, and I have a hunch it’s something missing from your life.” Then she holds her hands up in a truce as she backs toward the house to start on dinner. “I only push because I care.” She smiles warmly then leaves me.
Care. It’s such a simple concept, a transaction of emotion that so many people take for granted. I would know because I’ve seen the absence of it. In my students, particularly. I witnessed much care and emphasis on the expectations to do well, but not so much the care young children need to thrive.
Later that night, I fall asleep after trying to get through the first chapter of a dry science fiction novel that’s been lauded as a “hilarious mix into comedy.” I never DNF—do not finish—a novel, but this might break me. For three nights in a row now, I can’t last to that first chapter break.
Tonight, I regret the last attempt.
A loud crash sounds nearby. It’s so loud that I jolt up from sleep, smacking the book onto my hand.
I breathe quickly as adrenaline wakes me up. Seated in my bed, I wait for a flash of light. I didn’t realize it was supposed to storm, but that had to be thunder. It was just so loud. It shook the floor.
“Fuck!”
I blink, then widen my eyes at the curse. No lightning bolt strikes. Only the fury of one man as he curses aloud again.
Dalton. I lick my lips and swallow, startled by his rough voice.
Has someone broken in? Is someone in there with him? A bat? Random what-ifs fly through my sudden panic. A third time, he grumbles.
“Shit.”
I tilt my head, calming down a teeny bit when I realize it’s only his voice coming from the next room. Only his, so he must be alone and not facing a threat from an intruder. No other sounds, like punches or thuds, follow his profanity.
A glance at my watch shows that it’s four in the morning, and I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. He’s mumbling now, but he’s too quiet for me to make out what he’s saying.
“Dalton?” I wait a moment. “Are you all right?”
His gruff reply comes immediately. “Go back to bed and leave me alone.”
