ADEN

“You sure I can trust you with this?” My uncle’s giving me the look. I’ve seen it so often over these last however fucking long it’s been that it’s almost losing its punch. Almost.

It’s the look that says, “Don’t fuck this up” and “Is this really who you want to be?” It’s testing and challenging and I’m sure it’s meant to make me feel something that’ll push me to action, but I’d have to give a shit to care and, well . . . I don’t.

I haven’t heard from Celia since the night she held me in her arms and calmed my inner raging seas. I don’t know how long it’s been but it feels like a lifetime since I’ve felt alive.

Cal has been a constant pain in my ass refusing to leave and taking over all my duties at the cottages when I couldn’t pull myself out of a bar long enough to do them.

But he’s put up with my crap, he’s given me a purpose and hasn’t intervened too badly when I’ve traveled down self-destruction lane. I owe him the effort.

“Of course.” I don’t blame him for being leery about leaving this up to me. The day after she left he donated her car and I lost it. I blacked out for an entire day. After that I made him promise to keep Celia’s old place empty until I was ready to let it go. If it were my call I’d say we burn it down and put a fucking graveyard in its place, but it’s not, so fuck it. Life goes on, I guess.

He shoves some of his things into a duffel bag and I’m grateful he’s moved his attention off me so he can’t see the battle brewing in my mind.

“Her name is Kate Something-field. She’s coming by on her lunch break, so she won’t have much time.”

“I’ll open the place up and be waiting. It’ll be quick.” It’ll have to be. Because I haven’t set foot in Celia’s place since the morning after I held a gun to her head.

Just the thought makes me want to punch myself in the chest to push away the ache. Talk about showing my ass. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

Cal swings his bag over his shoulder and grabs his keys. “All right. I want to hit the road before traffic gets bad. I’ll try to get back down before the holidays.”

I grunt and nod.

First Jenkins.

Then Celia.

Now Cal.

I always thought being alone was what I wanted, but the thought of being truly alone is fucking depressing.

He squeezes my shoulder, then pushes past me to the door of his cottage. “The key to number four is on the desk.”

The screen door shuts behind him and I stare at the brass key remembering the way Celia’s fingers closed around it the first time I gave it to her. God, was that only a month ago? Feels like a different lifetime.

There’s a bottle of Jack Daniels under the seat in my car and as much as my throat longs for the heat of booze that’ll take away the sting of my thoughts I can’t show up at Celia’s—number four—with a buzz and the stank of liquor on my breath. I also can’t step foot into that cottage with an audience.

A quick walk-through should help to desensitize myself to the place.

I snag the key and move from Cal’s cottage out into the bright sun. Such a perfect day to fish—my stomach aches with the loss of Jenkins. Never thought I’d miss that crabby old man giving me shit about nothing.

When my feet hit the porch I’d swear I could smell Celia’s perfume in the breeze. Internally shaming myself for being a jackass, I distance my mind from my emotions and unlock the door.

At first glance, the space looks no different than any of the other cottages, but as my eyes track around the room I can see her everywhere. On the couch with her legs folded up beneath her, in the kitchen sorting through her ridiculous food, by the bookshelf defending herself in those photos as I implied the worst.

I assumed when I came through the door that it would smell of her. But the only thing that permeates my senses is the over-pungent scent of wood polish and Clorox.

A glutton for punishment, I allow my feet to carry me back to the bedroom. I stare at the spot where her bed used to be and thinking on that brings back all the memories of what we did on that bed. The room seems to shrink a little and I open the window for some fresh air. Standing with my back against the wall I’m hit with all that happened the night before she left and the shame and humiliation is suffocating.

I owe her an apology.

That’s the least she deserves.

That, and an explanation.

But if I called would she even want to hear from me?

Should I give her more time— A loose floorboard creaks beneath my foot.

Figuring I have time to grab my nail gun and fix it before the prospective tenant gets here, I bend over and grab the loose plank to see how much work will be involved in repairing it only to see the piece comes all the way off and easily.

Below the wood is an empty space, roughly the size of a laundry basket. And in that space lies a shoebox.

I pull it from the hole. It smells a little like mildew from being kept beneath the floorboards but looks untouched by any kind of water damage.

Popping off the top I peer inside to see what looks like some kind of memory box. Keepsakes, journals, and letters—both opened and unopened—litter the small space. There’s a generic trophy, a blue ribbon and—“Hello?”

I swing my gaze to the open doorway to see a woman cautiously peering inside. “Yeah, come on in.”

Putting the top back on I slide it to the side of the room and am placing the floorboard back on when the woman I’m assuming is Kate steps into the room.

“You must be Kate.” I offer her my hand.

She smiles up at me, her bright blue eyes twinkling and her cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “Yes, and you must be Aden.”

“Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand and when she doesn’t take her eyes off me I redirect her attention to the room. “It’s not much, but . . .” Some of my best memories were made here. “Can’t beat the location.”

She finally studies the room and walks over to the window to peer out to what I know is a sliver of ocean view that if the bed is placed just right can be seen from the comfort of pillows. Her foot hits the loose floorboard, making it squeak.

“I’ll fix the loose board today.”

Her high heels click against the wood as she moves into the kitchen and then out into the living room. “And you’re the property manager of the place?”

I follow her out and lean against the wall. “I am.”

She turns sending her long dark hair to cascade over her shoulder and grins in a way that’s so openly flirtatious I almost roll my eyes.

Trust me, woman, you don’t want none of this. I’m fucked up beyond repair.

“So? What do you think?”

She runs her finger along the countertop with long manicured nails. “I’ll take it.”

There’s a storm coming. I’ve watched the clouds build over the last hour as I sit anchored somewhere off the coast of Mexico. With a bottle of tequila in one hand and an envelope in the other I feel connected to the turbulent sky as it matches the feeling in my soul.

Finding that box in Celia’s floor was like opening a parallel universe. Everything I thought I knew . . . I didn’t.

At first its contents seemed to be nothing more than a catchall for old memories. Concert ticket stubs, old faded photos of a younger Celia, school report cards, and a photo of an older couple, her mom and dad, I assume.

There were handwritten letters to Celia signed “Love, Mom and Dad” that talked about their missing her and asking about all her adventures. And cards, so many cards for just about every holiday, all from her parents and someone named Sawyer who must be her sister.

But those weren’t the things that surprised me the most. Those weren’t the items that sent me pointing my boat out to the open sea.

Who knew a box could cause my already crumbling world to completely dissolve.

It was the stack of letters from different medical institutions all bundled up in a rubber band.

Celia was sick.

She had been for a long time.

According to multiple neurologists she’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor that has a life expectancy of eighteen months. I did some research only to find out that the location of the tumor would affect things like her balance, eyesight, breathing, and in retrospect I can’t say I paid attention enough to notice any of that.

Why didn’t she tell me?

There I was having fits about my past and the entire time she was dealing with a life-threatening illness.

Terminal cancer.

I tilt the bottle to my lips and relish the burn of booze as it slides down my throat. Celia, baby . . . what secrets you keep.

Because I’m a glutton for punishment I open the letter with the most recent date and read it again.

A bolt of lightning streaks across the sky and I stare at it, welcoming it to take me, begging for it to release me from this torture.

I let go of the only woman I ever really cared for.

And she’s out there, suffering, living out whatever time she has left without ever knowing how much I love her.