they help me stand on my own.”
I can’t do this. I can’t be here. Not a moment longer. I turn, heading toward the door, and then bend down to slip my shoes on. My necklace, Scott’s necklace, swings forward as I bend over. It’s a cold reminder of our differences, the ones I thought we could reconcile. The rich and the poor, the lost boy and the damaged butterfly, the cocky bastard and the sassy sweetheart.
With shaking fingers, I undo the clasp. It takes a steadying breath, but I set the jewelry on the table before looking at Scott.
“Madison, no. Please. We can figure this out. Let me take you to Stella’s and . . .” He’s right behind me, begging me to let this go. But it’s one occurrence in a repetitive loop with him.
I shake my head, knowing if I speak, I’ll break. I can feel the tears burning in my eyes already.
“Madison, I love you.”
I open the door, but before I can walk out, Scott reaches out, grabbing my arm. I look down, overwhelmed with the sense of déjà vu . . . his hand, tan and large, wrapped around my pale, thin arm, just above my wrist. I flinch unintentionally, not able to stop the roll of my stomach. He must see my reaction because he lets go instantly, a look of horror on his face. “Fuck, Madison. I’m not him. It’s not like that. We’re not like that.”
I look up, sadness pouring off me. “I know, Scott. You’re nothing like Rich. I loved you.”
Free of his grasp, I run out the door, banging down the steps even as I hear Scott yelling for my name from behind.
Let me go. Don’t chase me, Scott. Please. Don’t.
He doesn’t.
As I hit the street below, the tears fall freely. All we shared, all I thought we were going to share . . . is over.
Chapter 26
Madison
Stella’s feels different when I come in, mostly because there are two new girls behind the bar. Behind my bar. Well, maybe it’s not my bar anymore, I guess. I don’t know, considering what Scott did.
One of them looks more or less lost, but the other might know what the hell she’s doing. She’s at least checking the recipe book when I walk in.
Ignoring them, I make my way to the back, heading straight to Stella’s office. She’s staring at her computer blankly, obviously not seeing what’s in front of her and lost in her own mind. “Stella?”
She turns her head, but her eyes are dead, and she looks twenty years older than she was last week. “Maddie!” she exclaims, but her voice is weak, hoarse. Like she’s been crying for days. Days that I haven’t been here for her.
“Stella.” My voice cracks, the tears coming hot and fast to wash down my face unrestrained.
Stella opens her arms, and I rush into them, dropping to the floor beside her chair as we hug each other tight. I can feel her shaking sobs echoing mine as we dissolve into messy, snotty, ugly grief at everything lost. My disappointment, my pain at Scott’s betrayal shrivels under the weight of Stella’s pain. She has an aura of real loss . . . of her children, adults, but her babies nonetheless.
“Oh, my God, he’s gone. I can’t believe he’s gone,” she wails.
I’m not sure if she’s talking about Daryl or Carl, or both of them, but it doesn’t matter. The pain is palpable either way and my heart breaks for her. “I know, Stella. I’m so sorry.”
Her voice catches and hitches as she fills me in. “He was north of town, you know where the state highway and the Interstate merge?” she says, and I nod. It’s a badly designed onramp, and every couple of weeks, the news has another accident at Hangman’s Curve. “It was the other guy’s fault, the State Patrol says. He hit the front end of Daryl’s truck as Daryl was coming in.”
“I’m sorry, Stella. I know Daryl was a good driver and a good son.”
Stella half laughs, half sobs. “That he was. With a sense of humor that would have gotten his ass fired from anything other than being a trucker. That was my boy. So . . . sounds like you had another bad experience that night too. I don’t know what to say, but I’m right sorry about that. I got the call about Daryl in the middle of the night shortly after Scott called. I tried to call you but