Hard Read Free Page A

Inside, I’m elated, already envisioning the night.

 
    2
    Holland
     
    This man has a nice ride. I inhale the new car smell and rest my back into the soft, leather seat as we pull away from The Pub. It’s silent outside of the smooth hum of the engine. I have nothing I want to say, so I remain quiet. Most other women would probably have questions. Like, for starters, who is this man? And what does he want with me?
    Or maybe they would want to know what he does for a living. Where he lives. What his hobbies or interests are.
    Or perhaps they would be concerned about getting into a car with a man they just met. Driving off into the night without having told a soul. No plan, no direction, no idea where he’s taking them.
    I’m not like most other woman, though. I rest my forehead to the cool window and watch the blurring lines on the road. My only thought is of him. Not the man beside me. But of the precious little boy with chubby legs and the bluest of blue eyes. And I think of how much I miss him. How every fiber of my being aches for his baby powder scent or the silky soft texture of his skin. I would do anything, anything to hear his high-pitched laughter. Anything to listen to his babble.
    I press my fingertips into my palms, letting my nails dig into the flesh there. What good are a mother’s hands if they can no longer hold her child?
    Useless.
    Completely worthless. Just meat on the end of pointless limbs.
    My eyes fall closed and I allow the memory of his face to consume me. This is the only time I experience something close to emotion. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Usually this is the moment I’m reminded part of my heart is definitely inside my chest because I feel it shatter all over again.
    I’ve been told there are five stages of grief.
    Just five.
    Then you’re fine. You move on. Live your life. Everything goes back to normal.
    I must be doing something wrong because I seem to be repeating them over and over again. I’m on a wheel of misery, running as hard as I can and getting no closer to my end goal.
    Acceptance.
    The fifth and final stage. That magical place where everything is suddenly, miraculously better .
    Where I stop denying reality.
    Where I am no longer angry with God and fate and everything in-between.
    Yes, I must be doing something terribly, terribly wrong.
    It’s hard to believe my life was completely normal less than three years ago. I was normal. Happy.
    Three years was a lifetime ago.
    “I’m Jensen,” the man says, breaking the silence and invading my thoughts. I shift my head, my gaze falling on his dark eyes, noticing he’s now wearing glasses. Ah, there’s another question most women would have asked from the beginning. His name.
    “Pain,” he adds.
    “What?” I ask, caught off guard by this one word. Was that a question? Is he asking me if I’m in pain? Because yes— God, yes —I am in the most excruciating pain a person could ever feel. Emotionally and mentally. How can he tell? I thought I’ve hidden it well.
    “My name,” he states slowly, “is Jensen Payne.”
    I return my attention to the window. That doesn’t sound real, but I don’t bother to call him on it. Maybe it’s a pseudonym. Or an alias he uses to keep his work life separate from his night life. Either way, I don’t care.
    “Holland Howard. Nice to meet you.”
    Jensen makes a sound, something throaty and almost affronted. “I’m sure the trees are pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    When I glance back at him, the ghost of a smile remains on his full lips and I realize he’s trying to tease me. Most women would smile back or counter with a cute quip.
    I’m not most women.
    When you no longer care if you live or die, life becomes surprisingly… simple .
    Simple in the way I no longer hurry. When you stop giving a shit, time is meaningless.
    Simple in the way money has relinquished its hold of me, of my life. I stopped dreaming a long time ago, so I have no more use for the dream home