Keep reading for a look at More than Exist…
Prologue
What do you do when your perfect life is shattered in an instant?
A year ago, I got the knock at the door that every person fears. It was a rainy Sunday morning and I was lounging around, still in pajamas, waiting for my husband, Ricky, to get home so we could have breakfast. I remember letting out a frustrated sigh when the knock came at the door, angered because I was reading, and things were getting good. I’d bookmarked the page on my Kindle, then threw my fuzzy blanket off and stormed to the door, ready to give someone hell for coming to my house so early on a Sunday.
When I opened the door, my rebuff froze at the sight of a policeman on my front porch.
I crossed my arms, hugging them to myself instinctually in defense, as if I already knew I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
It’s funny how everything can be so in focus one minute, and a blur of confusion the next. After he said the word accident and motorcycle, it was as if he’d morphed into one of those teachers on Charlie Brown.
Wa, Wa, Wa Wa Wa Wa…
I remember crumbling. Just falling to the floor at the policeman’s feet, my entire body numb as my mind tried to make sense out of what the HELL was going on.
Ricky died on impact. The doctors said he didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t suffer. He was simply there one second, and gone the next. What started as an early-morning ride, ended up changing the course of my life forever.
The ironic thing … Ricky had survived four tours in the Middle East, only to be killed on a stupid motorcycle in the good ole US of A, on a deserted street in San Diego, California. I’d lived in terror throughout each deployment, but it had never occurred to me that I’d lose him at home.
Chapter 1
“Yes, Mom, I’m sure,” I assured her as I tucked the phone in between my ear and my shoulder so I could resume packing.
“I know you think I worry too much, Mirabelle, but driving cross-country all by yourself is crazy.” I could hear the strain in my mother’s voice, and I understood it, I totally did, but I swear, my mom acted like I was eighteen instead of thirty-two. “Why don’t you let me buy you a plane ticket?”
I rolled my eyes, grateful that she couldn’t see the insolent act.
“I don’t want to fly, that defeats the purpose of this trip,” I replied, softening my tone. “I need to do this, Mom.”
I could feel the fight go out of her, even though she was in Florida and I was in California, it was that palpable.
“Okay, Belle,” she said on a sigh. “Just make sure you call me every night.”
“I will.”
“And, have your car serviced before you leave.”
“Done.”
“And, make sure you stop every couple hours to stretch.”
“Mom…”
“And, stop when you’re tired.”
I laughed into the phone.
“I will. Mom, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“I know,” she replied, and I hoped those weren’t tears I heard in her voice. “Be safe, Belle. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom. See you soon.”
I shut off my phone and stuck it in my back pocket, then looked around the house that had been my home for the last ten years. It was empty now, save the few things I’d kept behind for my trip, and the large open rooms felt as hollow as my heart.
It had been a year since Ricky died, but I’d been unable to think about what to do next, until recently. I’d been comfortable in my grief, and stayed because this is where I felt closest to him.
We’d met twelve years ago in Louisiana, but I moved here once we were married, and the bulk of our relationship was spent here. So when I lost him, the thought of losing San Diego, our house, and our memories, was too much to bear. So I stayed, even though there was nothing for me here any longer.
My parents live in Florida, and I’m an only child.
Ricky’s father passed away four years ago, colon cancer, and his mother and sister, Consuela, still live in Louisiana.
I have no family here, and no one that I would call a true friend. I mean, sure, I’d made some friends at work over the years, but with Ricky gone so often, I mostly kept to myself.
He was not only my husband, but also my best friend, and with him gone I’d went from a loner to a hermit.
I’d started drinking. Initially, to ease the pain I’d felt with his death, but lately, I drank because it was four o’clock, and I had nothing else to do. Plus, I liked it. I liked feeling numb. When I drank the anxiety and panic left me. I knew my limits, too. I knew how much I needed to drink to reach that moment of peace, and when I needed to stop before peace became loneliness and grief.
I’d finally come to the realization that I couldn’t live this way any longer, so I’d sold the house, had our stuff packed up and loaded on a truck, and was about to embark on my first adventure in years.
I think my mother suspected that I was drinking too much, and I knew she wanted to get me in person so she could confirm her fears, but I wasn’t ready to stop. Alcohol had become my friend. The one thing I could rely on to make me feel better, and I wasn’t willing to give it up.
Ricky and I loved road trips, and often used them as a way to break out of the mold of our everyday lives. Whenever we took a trip, we vowed to be open to trying new things, and took that vow very seriously.
I was driving cross-country, stopping to see his family, and then my own, before I decided what I wanted to do next with my life. Where I wanted to live. Where I wanted to work.
I was a cook. Not a chef, since I’d never been classically trained, but I’d been cooking since I was old enough to reach the counter in my mother’s kitchen. What had started as my mother teaching me what her mother had taught her, had turned into a passion, and I’d been working in kitchens since I was sixteen years old.
Over the last few years I’d been working at a diner. Working the early shift and mostly cooking breakfast and prepping lunch, before getting off and having my afternoons and evenings to myself. I wasn’t sure exactly where I wanted to go next, but I knew it would be in a kitchen somewhere. I needed at least that one semblance of normalcy in my life.
I took one last look at the shell of what had once been my home, slung my bag over my shoulder, and walked out without looking back.
It was time to move on.
More than Exist is Available Now!
Acknowledgments
Lori - Can you believe it’s finally finished? I can still remember sending you the prologue about five years ago. Thanks for sticking with me.
Alli - I had you make this cover so long ago you probably forgot you even made it, lol! Thanks for the gorgeous cover as always!
Ann and Raine - Thanks for reading through this thing about a million times sporadically over the years!
J.H., Lyn, and Jennifer - Thanks for Beta reading and giving me feedback. I so appreciate your help!
My Newsletter Subscribers - Thanks for loving this story and sticking with me for years while I wrote it. I’ve included about 10k of new content for you. I hope you love it!
My children - for always supporting me and checking in with me on my word count and asking if I’ve written today… I love you more than anything.
About the Author
Bethany Lopez is a USA Today Bestselling author of more than thirty books and has been published since 2011. She's a lover of all things romance, which she incorporates into the books she writes, no matter the genre.
When she isn't reading or writing, she loves spending time with family and traveling whenever possible.
Bethany can usually be found with a cup of coffee or glass of wine at hand, and will never turn down a cupcake!
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