by Rachel Leigh
Stepping into a pair of sweatpants, I head out of the bedroom. I expect to see her in the living room, but she’s not there. Knocking on the door to the spare room, I get no response. “Rowan,” I whisper-yell.
Where the hell is she?
Turning back down the short hallway, I go into the kitchen and see a note sitting on the table next to a cold cup of Dunkin coffee and a wrapped up breakfast sandwich.
You got your wish. I’m gone. But not as far as you’d probably like. I’ll be staying at the bed-and-breakfast in town. I meant what I said. I’m not leaving until I have what I came here for.
Pulling up to the Old Kraft House, I immediately spot her beige little car. There are only a couple other cars in the parking lot, so it wasn’t exactly hard to figure out that she was here, even if she didn’t give me a name of the place where she was staying.
When I walk in, I’m immediately greeted by Mrs. Hill with a huge smile on her face. “Good evening, Nash. It’s so nice to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, Mrs. Hill. I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of one of your guests, Rowan Shane.”
“Oh, Nash, I wish I could.” She rakes her fingers through her short peppered hair. “Unfortunately, we can’t share any information on our guests.”
“Right.” I nod. “Okay, I’ll just wait over here until she comes out.” I point at a bench to the left.
Confusion sweeps the smile off her face. “Umm, okay. I suppose that will fine. You might be waiting a long time.”
Taking a seat, I return with a smile. “That’s no problem.” I cross my arms over my chest and pull out my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants.
“I’ll tell you what.” She pulls my eyes out of my phone. “I’ll just ring her room and let her know she has company.”
Sticking it back in my pocket, I retort, “That would be great. Thank you.”
Right as she picks up the phone, I stop her. “Mrs. Hill, could you do me a favor and not tell her my name?”
Giving me an odd look, she presses a button on the phone and begins talking right away, “Ms. Shane, I’m sorry to bother you, but there is a gentleman”—her eyes shoot to me—“here to see you in the lobby.” She pauses for a beat. “I sure will. Enjoy your evening.”
When she puts the phone down, I jump up and stick both hands in my pockets. “Well?”
“She’ll be right out.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Three minutes later, Rowan walks out wearing a pair of far too short shorts and a shirt that doesn’t even make an attempt to cover her stomach. As soon as she lays eyes on me, she lets out a much too dramatic sigh. “Of course.” She throws her hands up. “I should have known.”
“Just give me five minutes, please.” I look over at Mrs. Hill, who has her elbows pressed against the tall countertop and her chin resting on her hands. Leave it to Mrs. Hill to try and catch some small town drama. She’d just love to share all of this with the ladies at bingo night. Looking back to Rowan, I nod toward the open dining room to the right. “Over there.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she huffs and puffs with each step. “Make this quick. I was in the middle of making some calls.”
With my hands still in my pockets, I toy with my keys and wallet in one pocket, and my phone in the other. “Listen, I’m not going to apologize,” I blurt out without thinking first.
Throwing her arms in the air again, she releases a drawn out breath, “Of course you’re not. That would be above you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant to say was, “I’m not going to apologize for how I feel. Rowan, you showed up at my door yesterday demanding things I can’t give you. I’ve met you one time and it was a hi and bye encounter. All I have to go on with you is what I’ve witnessed through Gemma over the past year.”
“I just want her journal then I’ll leave and you never have to see me again.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll help you find this journal, if you’ll come back and stay at the house. Gemma wouldn’t want her only sister staying at a bed-and-breakfast when our home is right down the road.”
She immediately shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll keep my crude comments to myself.”
Lifting her head to look at me, the sadness returns. “The fact that you even have crude thoughts about me is the exact reason why I need to stay here.”
“This would be a good opportunity for you to prove to me that you are not the person I make you out to be.”
Sadness is replaced by anger in the blink of an eye. “I shouldn’t have to prove anything to you!”
She has a point.
“Okay, bad choice of words. Come back to the house so I can prove to you that I’m not the asshole who spewed hate at you this morning.”
“I can’t.”
My phone begins buzzing in my pocket. Out of memory of the key placement, I end the call without even pulling it out. “And why can’t you?” My head instinctively tilts to the side to get a look at her expression that now proves to be nervousness.
She begins to speak, but stops herself. “I...it’s not you. It’s me. Well, it is you, but not for the reasons you think.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m trying.” She draws in a deep breath. “Gemma’s death saved my life, Nash. I was prepared to take my life until I found out she took hers.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. “You wanted to commit suicide?” I question, trying to get a better understanding of what she’s saying.
Her head drops down as she begins bending her flip-flop underneath her toes. Watching her own movements, she continues, “I’ve battled depression, too. When Gemma passed away, it was a wakeup call for me. As soon as I found out, I admitted myself to a psychiatric hospital in Los Angeles. That’s why I wasn’t at the funeral. That’s why I suck so bad at being a sister.”
“Shit, Rowan. Why didn’t you just say something?” A stray tear drops onto her bare foot. Pushing her chin up with my thumb, I force her to look at me. “You could have told me.”
“Yeah, okay.” She mocks herself, “Hey, Nash. Sorry I missed my sister’s funeral. I was in a mental institution because I didn’t want to live anymore either. Sorry my sister had to die to save my life, but how have you been?”
Damn. I had no idea. I knew about Gemma’s battles, but I never took into consideration that her sister might be struggling, too.
“Okay.” I nod in agreement. “What can I do to help?”
Her forehead scrunches together in an array of lines as she bites at the corner of her lip. “Be nice?”
I can be nice. It’s not like it’s hard.
“I promise I will treat you better. Okay?”
“You’ll stop forcing back up the guilt that I carry for missing so much?’
“I promise I will stop now that I am seeing the picture more clearly.”
Taking a minute to think about it, she chews on her bottom lip again, then nods and a smile slowly raises her cheekbones. “Okay. I’ll come back.”
“Good. Now, let’s find this infamous journal.” I hook my arm around her neck and walk her back to the lobby where Mrs. Hill quickly grabs a magazine that she’s reading upside down. She was eavesdropping without a doubt. “Mrs. Hill, Rowan will be checking out.” I pull my wallet out of my pocket and slide my credit card across the counter. “I’ll pay for her room for the night.” I look at Rowan and hold up my hand before she can try and stop me. “Go grab your things and meet me back at the house. I think I know where to start looking first.”
Chapter Seven
Rowan
When I checked in at the B&B, I hated Nash Whitmore. When I checked out, I felt like we hit a breaking point. I shared something with him I haven’t shared with anyone. Not even my so-called friends. It’s likely because I dropped them all. They were never my friends to begin with. We were just a group of
people enabling one another. While I was at the treatment facility, I learned a lot. One of the most important things I learned is how to distance myself from people who trigger irrational thoughts. Nash’s comments didn’t take me back to that place, but his actions made me want to escape. Escaping would take me back to where I started and I’m feeling positive about the progress I’ve made. I know I’m going to be fine. Maybe not today, but one day, as long as I stay on this path.
“Where are we exactly?” I ask from the passenger seat of his pickup truck.
“Dr. Harris’s office. She was the therapist Gemma has been seeing since she moved to Sunnyville.”
“And you think she has Gemma’s journal?”
Turning the ignition off and retrieving the key, he stuffs it into the pocket of his sweatpants. “I’m ninety percent sure she does. She has to. Who else would have it? Gemma didn’t have many friends here.”
“All right then. Doesn’t hurt to find out.” I glance at my phone in my hand. “It’s almost five o’clock. Think they’re still open?”
“She’s here.” He points at a black BMW in front of us. “That’s her car.”
The building sits in the center of a row with other medical offices. All cobblestone with crimson fire bushes lining the front. Dr. Harris’s name is engraved on a metal slab on front of the office. Nash pulls open the door and makes way for me as I walk inside. It’s quaint and smells of apricots and lemons. A glass window separates us from the receptionist on the other side. She slides the glass window open and Nash asks if Dr. Harris has a minute to talk. She holds up a finger, shuts the glass, and we both wait until she slides the glass back open again.
“She’ll be out in a moment. You can both have a seat.”
Before we can even sit down, the door opens and a beautiful young woman with sleek black hair and bright red lipstick walks out. I was expecting someone older, but Dr. Harris can’t be older than thirty.
As soon as her eyes land on Nash, they all but pop out of their sockets. “Nash.” She gasps. “I’m so happy to see you.” She comes to our side quickly and throws her arms around Nash, who reciprocates the gesture and hugs her back.
I’ve been seeing the wrong therapists in my lifetime. Seventy-year-old Gladys Knight never even stood up from her chair that was imprinted with the shape of her ass.
“You must be Rowan.” She beams. Throwing me completely off guard and out of my comfort zone, she pulls me in for a hug next.
Forcing a smile, I pat her on the back with both hands. “How’d you guess?”
Pulling away, she puts her hands gently on both of my shoulders. “The eyes. You have your sister’s eyes.” There is a sense of compassion and sadness in her tone. As if she lost someone very close to her, too. “Come on back to my office. We have a lot to talk about.”
It’s almost as if she was expecting us. Which is odd, because I didn’t even know that Gemma was seeing a therapist before coming to Sunnyville. I’m glad she was. I know firsthand how deeply Gemma battled her inner demons. When our parents passed away, Gemma took the loss so hard that I wasn’t sure she’d be able to get by. Over the years, she took care of us both, but she never smiled the same after that day.
The office offers a very homely feel. A black suede couch with a couple throw pillows and a blanket draped over the top. A couple of chairs line one wall, and a desk on the other side that overlooks a wide-open field. I bet she catches the most beautiful sunsets out that picture window.
“Thanks for taking the time to see us. I’m gonna cut right to the chase. We’re here because we have reason to believe Gemma left behind some sort of journal,” Nash says with puzzlement in his tone.
Dr. Harris waves her hands over to the couch. “Have a seat.” She then proceeds to her desk where she sits down and unlocks a drawer. “You’re much later than planned, but you are here, so I’m going to handle this the way I see fit.” She spins around to face us as Nash and I exchange a look.
What is this lady even talking about? Much later than planned?
As if Nash read my mind, he asks, “Late for what?”
Rubbing her red lips together, she pulls a piece of paper from a manila folder that sits on her lap. “Three months ago Gemma was in my office for her last appointment. She wasn’t doing the best, but there is no reason to dredge that up. She left and went home with a promise to call me if she needed to talk. Three days later there was a package delivered to my door. Gemma didn’t take her life on a whim, Nash. It was very carefully executed.”
Nash stands up and digs his hands into his pockets. “What was in the package? Her journal?”
“Amongst other things. She left me a note with instructions on how she wanted her last wishes carried out. It involves the both of you.” She glances side-eyed between Nash and me.
I speak up, “Okay. I’m confused. So Gemma left you a note to give me the journal?”
“You will get the journal, but there are some things I need first. The number one thing being time. The second is a death certificate, and the third is that Gemma has requested that you stay in Sunnyville until all legal matters have been resolved and I’m able to give it to you.”
“Wait a minute,” Nash scoffs. “How did you even know we would come here? What the hell is going on?”
Looking over at Nash, I sense the same confusion. How did she know we were coming? This is all too strange.
Dr. Harris directs her attention to me. “You got the note I sent, didn’t you?”
Chills cascade down my back. “You sent the note?”
“Mmmhmm.” She nods.
“I don’t get it. How? Why?”
“Like I said, Gemma had a plan and she asked me to help her execute it. I actually expected you all much sooner. We knew you would go to Nash for the journal. We also knew Nash would come to me.”
“Stop saying we,” Nash snaps. “Stop talking like she’s here. Like you’ve been in contact with her.” His fingers run through his hair as he spins around, hiding his face. Attempting to mask his pain.
“I’m sorry. I am deeply sorry for the loss you have both faced. Gemma was an amazing woman.”
Speaking for us both, I dig deeper, “Can I read the note that she left for you? I think both Nash and I would like to know what her plan is.”
Nash turns back around. Eyes wide and hope reinforced. “Yes, let’s see this note.”
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, stuffing the paper back into the envelope. “You will know all that she wants you to know once you get the journal.”
“Fine.” Nash nods in agreement. “Where do I get the death certificate?”
Surprised, I look at Nash. “You never got one?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes and no. If you didn’t request one, it’s possible that the funeral director did that for you. You can either check with them or you can fill out this form.” She pulls another paper from the folder. “Send this with a check to Vital Records and you should have it in about thirty days.”
“Thirty days!” I spit. “You’re telling me that my sister wants me to stay here in Sunnyville for the next thirty days to wait for a journal that you can easily mail to me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she says point-blank. It’s as if she knew exactly how Nash and I would react. The exact time frame. The entire process. She even had the form in Gemma’s folder. What I don’t understand is why? Why is my sister doing this?
It’s almost like she wants me to stay here in Sunnyville for a reason.
Unless.
Unless that reason is Nash.
Chapter Eight
Nash
It’s been two weeks since Rowan and I went to see Dr. Harris. I took her to the cemetery to see Gemma’s gravestone where she was buried. Rowan wanted some time alone with her and I gave her that time. She’s been back twice already this week and I think it’s really hitting her that her sister isn’t coming back. I think it’s hitting us both. Things have bee
n pretty quiet around the house. Rowan decided to pick up a temporary bartending job at Hooligans so she could have money for her expenses while she’s here.
Grant and Emerson have invited me out to do karaoke tonight, but I’m not so sure I’m ready for it. The problem is, I haven’t gone to a karaoke night without Gemma since we started dating. Dr. Harris, whom I booked my own session with yesterday, says that it is healthy to continue the things we did together. Who am I to argue with a woman who spent eight years in school studying the way our fucked up minds work?
Giving into myself, and to the words of the good doctor, I grab my keys off the counter and head out before I have a chance to change my mind.
The sunset over the mountains in the distance offers a sense of calm. For the first time in a while, I feel like I’m going to be okay. I still miss her like hell. That will never change. But I’m beginning to feel like it’s okay for me to live even though she died.
Parking the car along the sidewalk, I hop out of my truck. It’s Friday night and there are a few people gathered in front of Hooligans smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit. Giving a double take, I notice one of my old high school buddies. “Matt Steele.” I give him a bro tap to the shoulder. “Holy shit, where the hell have you been for the last ten years?”
“Nash. How the hell are ya?” He pulls me in for a hug.
“Doing good.” I stuff my keys into the pocket of my blue jeans. “How have you been?”
“Oh, ya know, living the good life. Got a wife and three kids back home. Came up for the weekend to visit my uncle Sam. He ain’t doing too well.”
“Sorry to hear that. Sam’s a good man.”
“How about you? Married? Got any little rug rats running around?”