Chapter 2 #2
“I’ll raise our children as you wanted. I’ll carry on what we started. I’ll keep all your dreams alive ... you have my word. I love you, my darling.”
My face screws up in tears, and I snap my thoughts back to the present. It doesn’t do me any good letting that memory linger. If I let myself go back there, it’s like I lose him all over again.
The pain never goes away, but some days it feels like it might just kill me. I’m an empty shell. My body functions as it should, but I’m barely breathing.
I’m suffocating in a world of responsibilities.
The promises I made my husband in the hours after his death have come at a heavy cost.
I don’t go out at night, I don’t socialize anymore, I work my fingers to the bone ... both at home and in the office.
Devoted to keeping Wade’s dreams alive, to keeping his children loved and protected. To keeping his company afloat. It’s hard, and it’s lonely, and damn it, I just wish he’d walk through the fucking door and save me.
Marley’s words from earlier today run through my mind.
“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”
In the pit of my stomach, I know she’s right. Like a song hanging in the wind, her words are lingering with me. Chipping away at my sensibility.
I stare into space as an empty sadness surrounds me ... he’s not coming back.
He’s never coming back.
It’s time; I know it’s time.
That doesn’t make it any less painful.
I couldn’t imagine living without him. I don’t know how I’m doing it.
I don’t want to have to learn to.
I stare down at my wedding rings and grip them with my fingers as I prepare myself to do the unthinkable.
I blink through the tears; a suffocating weight is on my chest, and I slowly pull them off. They catch on my knuckle, and finally they slide free.
I close my hand into a fist. It feels light without the weight of my rings, and I stare down at the white band left on my bare finger. The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.
I hate my hand without his ring.
I hate my life without his love.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I put my head down onto the steering wheel ... and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to cry.
I throw the last pair of shoes into my suitcase. I leave tomorrow for the conference. “I think that’s it.”
“Did you get your toothbrush?” Patrick asks as he lies on his stomach on my bed, beside my suitcase. My youngest child is also my wisest. He never forgets a thing. “Not yet. I still have to use it. I’ll pack it in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“So Grandma will be here when you get home from school,” I remind him.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he says with an eye roll. “And I have to call you the moment Harry’s naughty or if Fletcher gets short tempered.” He sighs as he recites my orders.
“Yes, that’s right.” Little do his brothers know, but Patrick is also my tattletale. I know what his brothers have done before they even finish doing it.
I have three sons. Fletcher is seventeen and has taken on the unofficial job as my personal bodyguard.
Harry is thirteen, and I swear to God he’s either going to end up a Nobel Prize–winning genius or in jail.
He is the most mischievous human being I know, always getting into some kind of trouble—mostly at school.
And then there’s my baby, Patrick, just nine years old. He’s sweet and gentle and sensible and everything his brothers are not. He’s also my biggest worry. He was only four when his father died, and he missed out the most.
He doesn’t even remember his dad.
He has photos of him strewed all over his room.
He hero-worships him. I mean, we all do.
But Patrick’s obsession is almost over the top.
He asks me to tell him a story about his father at least twice a day.
He smiles and listens intently as I relay past events and tell him stories about Wade.
He knows all of Wade’s favorite meals at restaurants and then always wants to order the same.
He sleeps in one of his dad’s old T-shirts.
I do this too, but I would never let on that I do.
To be honest, I kind of dread story time. We all laugh and make jokes over the memory. Then the children go to bed and fall into a blissful slumber, and my mind goes over the scene time after time.
Wishing we could do it all over again.
Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood.
He’s dead enough that I’m lonely ... but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.
I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell.
Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.
“Okay, read out my list,” I continue.
“Bus ...” Patrick frowns as he reads. “Bus-in-ess.”
“Business clothes.”
“Yes.” He smiles proudly that he nearly got it.
I mess up his dark hair that is curling up at the ends. “Check.”
He ticks the word. “Cas ...” He frowns, as if stuck.
“Casual clothes?” I ask.
He nods.
“Check.”
“Pj’s.” He hunches his shoulders in excitement. “I knew that one.”
“I know—look at you all growing up and reading.” Patrick has dyslexia, and reading is hard for him, but we’re getting there. I check the suitcase. “Got them.”
He ticks and then goes to the next item on the list. “Shoes?”
“Check.”
“Ha ... ha ...” He frowns, deep in concentration.
“Hair dryer?”
“Yes.”
“Got it.”
“Dresses.”
I puff air into my cheeks and look in my wardrobe. “Hmm, what dresses do I have?” I flick through my clothes on the hangers. “I only have going-out kinds of dresses. These aren’t really work-conference outfits. Hmm ...” I pull out a black one and hold it up against my body and look in the mirror.
“That’s a pretty dress. Where did you wear that with Dad?”
“Well.” I frown. I have no idea, but I have to make something up like I always do. “Um, we went for pizza, and then we went dancing.”
He smiles goofily, and I know he’s imagining what I’ve just told him. “What kind of pizza did you eat?”
“Pepperoni.”
His eyes widen. “Can we have pizza tonight?”
“If you want.”
“Yes.” He punches the air. “We can have pizza tonight,” he screams to his brothers as he runs from the room. “I’m having pepperoni, like Dad.”
I smile sadly. He would be sorely disappointed if he knew Wade would have had extra-chili-and-anchovy pizza, but I’ll let him have his pepperoni pizza with a huge smile on his face.
I take a few of the dresses and throw them into my suitcase; they’ll have to do. I don’t have time to buy anything else.
I stare down at my packed suitcase and put my hands on my hips. “Okay, I think that’s it. Conference, here I come.”
The car pulls into the grand entrance of the Chateau de Makua. “Wow,” I whisper as I peer out the window. I’ve flown almost eight hours, and then my driver picked me up, and it took us another three hours to drive here. I’m dead tired after my early start but suddenly filled with nerves.
The driver takes my suitcase from the trunk, and I tip him and stare up at the big building in front of me.
M IND M ASTERS
Even the name of this conference is ridiculous. I wheel my suitcase in and wait in the line at reception.
The building is lovely, old fashioned, and otherworldly. It’s luxurious and opulent and feels like I have stepped back in time. The foyer is grand, and a huge circular staircase is the center feature.
“Next?” the concierge asks as everyone shuffles forward. I look around at the people in front of me in the line. I wonder if they are attending the conference.
There are two girls who look like Barbie dolls. Huge silicone lips—and how do they think those ridiculous huge eyelashes look good? Don’t their eyes hurt with something that heavy on their lids like that?
One has waist-length bleached-blonde hair with extensions that you can see at the roots.
Ugh ... so tacky. The other one has a dark, curly, thick mane.
They’re both wearing next to nothing and are done up to the nines.
I tighten my ponytail and pull down my linen shirt, feeling extraordinarily uncool.
Damn it, I should have worn something a bit swankier.
The blonde notices me standing behind her. “Oh, hi. Are you attending Mind Masters?”
“Yes.” I give an awkward smile. “Are you?”
“Yes,” she shrieks. “Oh my God, I’m so excited. I’m Ellie. What do you do?”
“Um.” I shrug, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “I’m Claire. I work for a company.”
“I’m running my own empire,” Ellie says as she widens her eyes in excitement.
“Empire,” I repeat, amused. “In what?” I ask.
“I’m an influencer.”
I stare at her as my brain tries to keep up. Oh God no ... one of those twits who gets paid for posting fake crap. “Really? Great.”
“I travel the world and model bikinis.” She smiles. “If I post an image of myself, the world goes into meltdown.”
I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. Is she for real? “I ... bet they do.”
The dark-haired girl in front of her turns toward us and laughs. “Snap, girlfriend.”
“Oh my God ... you too?” Ellie gasps.
They both burst into laughter. “I’m Angel,” the dark-haired girl introduces herself. “I’m going to be an influencer too.”
“You haven’t started yet?” Ellie asks in a condescending tone.
“Well.” Angel shrugs. “Not technically. I still have a few movies left on my contract, but as soon as I finish those, I’m totally into it—all systems go.”
“Movies?” Ellie gasps. “What kind of movies?”
“I’m a porn actress. You may have seen my latest, Anal Mistress with Johnny Rocket Cock .”
Ellie’s eyes widen, “Oh. My. God.” She gasps. “I totally recognize you.” They begin to laugh and bounce on the spot in excitement.
Oh hell.
I wonder what Johnny Rocket Cock does to her ass.
Or what anyone does to anyone’s ass, actually. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched that I’ve completely forgotten everything, and even when I was, it was never hard-and-fast porn-style sex. It was loving and tender. The kind of sex that married people have.
Safe and real, a world away from being an anal mistress.