Page 130 of The Pact
A hand slides across my back.
“You okay?” Presley asks.
“I’m not really sure what I’m feeling.”
Her hand stills, then starts moving again, slow and steady.
“Well, I think that’s a fair answer.”
We’re both quiet for a moment.
“She stood here with me,” I say.
Presley looks at me.
“The last time I was here, we watched them play.”
Her face softens. “I can see that.”
I press my palm harder against the counter. “At home, the pain isn’t any less, but I’m in my space, my routine. Being here, it still doesn’t feel real.”
“I’m sure it’s difficult being here.”
“I just keep thinking she’s going to walk in here any minute and tell me it was some kind of test or something.”
Presley leans against me.
I pull in a deep breath to try to steady myself and take hold of Presley’s hand and feel her ring on her finger.
“I wonder what my sister would think of us getting married,” I say.
“You think she would approve?” she asks.
I look at her. “Definitely.”
She holds my gaze. “Savannah loved you,” she says. “She adored her children. She wanted them safe. And I’m certain she wants you to be happy.”
My throat tightens because for a minute, it hits me—the fact that this marriage doesn’t feel like an arrangement for me, but that Presley still might see it that way.
I look back out the window. “You’re right. She would.”
I push off the counter and turn to face her, and I lean down to kiss her temple. “We should probably get going.”
Presley wraps her arms around my waist and rests her head against my chest. “Are you sure you want me to come with you? Do you think they would be more receptive if I wasn’t there?”
“I want you with me. Besides, we need to tell them we’re married, and if you aren’t with me, it would look pretty strange.”
She nods. “I just wanted to make sure.”
I take her arms from around me, thread my fingers with hers, grab my keys off the counter, and head toward the door. “Let’s go do this.”
Ten minutes later, we pull up to the Hart’s home. I see Evelyn look out the window, then she disappears, only to open the front door.
When we dropped off the kids earlier, I noticed she looked smaller than before. Like grief had aged her. Her cheeks look hollow, and there are sharp lines around her mouth that weren’t there before. Dennis, Chris’s father, stands beside her, one hand on her shoulder, the other on the doorframe.
I watch them for a minute and have to remind myself that they really aren’t the enemy here. They’re also grieving and scared. But still, my body tenses.
Presley lays a hand on my forearm. “Just breathe.”
