Page 72 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

Because if I tell Holt, he’ll come home.

He’ll choose us.

And he’ll regret it.

Regret us.

PART II

THE PROMISES WE BROKE

1

TAKE A SNAPSHOT FOR YOU

FEBRUARY 2022 – 31 YEARS OLD

It’s easy to forget the brutal cold of the winter wind that rolls down from the mountains of Rubble Ridge until it hits me. The bite is harsh against the skin of my face as I slam the door of my truck.

I fucking hate being back here.

I hate that my reason for being here is so tragic.

I hate that he never stopped trying—and I never forgave him.

I hate that now he’s dead.

I can’t even cry. I’m too fucking mad. I’m mad at him for what he did. Even more, I’m mad at him for having the nerve to fucking die. For hurting her. For leaving her.

I took an emergency leave, but I can’t be gone for long. It’s the dead middle of the season and my team depends on me. Still, here I am in the dead of winter back in my hometown.

Snow crunches beneath my feet as I make my way across the street and down the sidewalk. I’d tried to find a parking space, but the lot of the funeral home is full to bursting. A sea of people moves through the double doors, held open for the grieving. The ones left behind.

Even as I cursed myself for it, I searched for her as I drove past. I wanted to beat the piss out of my steering wheel as I parked against the curb, already lined with vehicles that spill from the overfull parking lot.

The guy was loved. A lot.

Bitter wind bites at my skin. Shrugging my shoulders, I pull the collar of my jacket up to shield my neck. The cold here is different from Vancouver. This cold is dry and violent. It’s the kind of cold that’ll crack the skin of your fingertips and chap your lips. There’s no escaping it.

I move through the doors and tuck myself into a bench at the back. My vision lands on the blown-up picture and the cherry wood casket. A prickly heat coils around my spine, spreading to my neck. For a moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t swallow. Nearly choke around the swell of grief.

He’s not in the coffin. Mom told me they couldn’t recover his body. They’ll try again in the spring when everything thaws.

Salt stings my eyes. Emotion needles my nose.

Fuck. I’m going to cry.

Dipping my head between my shoulders, my vision burns and blurs as I focus on my boots. My hands are shoved into my pockets, so I don’t have to worry about someone seeing my white-knuckled fists.

Murmured apologies somehow blare like horns. I have to fight the flinch of every single one.

I’m not sure how much time passes as people shuffle around me, finding their seats. There’s a war raging inside me. Anger battling loss. I hate that I loved him so god damned much. That I hated him in the same breath that I loved him.

Someone begins to speak. I don’t lift my head as the man sings the praise of the dead. There’s a buzzing between my ears that only grows louder and louder. Until I hear a woman speak.

I lift my head for the first time. It’s like a sucker punch to the gut.

A hot blade to the heart.