Nash turns back around. Eyes wide and hope reinforced. “Yes, let’s see this note.”
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, stuffing the paper back into the envelope. “You will know all that she wants you to know once you get the journal.”
“Fine.” Nash nods in agreement. “Where do I get the death certificate?”
Surprised, I look at Nash. “You never got one?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes and no. If you didn’t request one, it’s possible that the funeral director did that for you. You can either check with them or you can fill out this form.” She pulls another paper from the folder. “Send this with a check to Vital Records and you should have it in about thirty days.”
“Thirty days!” I spit. “You’re telling me that my sister wants me to stay here in Sunnyville for the next thirty days to wait for a journal that you can easily mail to me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she says point-blank. It’s as if she knew exactly how Nash and I would react. The exact time frame. The entire process. She even had the form in Gemma’s folder. What I don’t understand is why? Why is my sister doing this?
It’s almost like she wants me to stay here in Sunnyville for a reason.
Unless.
Unless that reason is Nash.
Chapter Eight
Nash
It’s been two weeks since Rowan and I went to see Dr. Harris. I took her to the cemetery to see Gemma’s gravestone where she was buried. Rowan wanted some time alone with her and I gave her that time. She’s been back twice already this week and I think it’s really hitting her that her sister isn’t coming back. I think it’s hitting us both. Things have been pretty quiet around the house. Rowan decided to pick up a temporary bartending job at Hooligans so she could have money for her expenses while she’s here.
Grant and Emerson have invited me out to do karaoke tonight, but I’m not so sure I’m ready for it. The problem is, I haven’t gone to a karaoke night without Gemma since we started dating. Dr. Harris, whom I booked my own session with yesterday, says that it is healthy to continue the things we did together. Who am I to argue with a woman who spent eight years in school studying the way our fucked up minds work?
Giving into myself, and to the words of the good doctor, I grab my keys off the counter and head out before I have a chance to change my mind.
The sunset over the mountains in the distance offers a sense of calm. For the first time in a while, I feel like I’m going to be okay. I still miss her like hell. That will never change. But I’m beginning to feel like it’s okay for me to live even though she died.
Parking the car along the sidewalk, I hop out of my truck. It’s Friday night and there are a few people gathered in front of Hooligans smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit. Giving a double take, I notice one of my old high school buddies. “Matt Steele.” I give him a bro tap to the shoulder. “Holy shit, where the hell have you been for the last ten years?”
“Nash. How the hell are ya?” He pulls me in for a hug.
“Doing good.” I stuff my keys into the pocket of my blue jeans. “How have you been?”
“Oh, ya know, living the good life. Got a wife and three kids back home. Came up for the weekend to visit my uncle Sam. He ain’t doing too well.”
“Sorry to hear that. Sam’s a good man.”
“How about you? Married? Got any little rug rats running around?”
Saved by the bell, Grant comes walking out the door. “Eyyy, you made it.”
“Good to see you, Matt. Tell Sam I said hello.” I give him another pat to the back and turn to walk away. Glad I didn’t have to offer any sordid details on my home life. When people hear about the death of a loved one, they feel pity. Pity is something I abso-fucking-lutely hate. I don’t like attention. I don’t like talking about feelings. And I sure as hell don’t like sharing personal information about myself. I’m a very private man unless it’s a close friend or family member.
I immediately spot Rowan when we walk in. She doesn’t see me, and I can’t help but laugh when I hear her yelling at a guy at the bar. Finger shaking at him and all. I’ve had yet to see this side of her, but I’m not at all surprised. Gemma often talked Rowan’s feisty side. Even told me about a time she beat up a guy twice her size in high school because he grabbed her ass.
Mid-poke into the guy’s chest as he sits on the barstool, she catches me laughing in the distance behind him. The anger in her eyes quickly diminishes and a grin replaces the scowl on her face.
Mumbling something to the big, burly dude, she walks away from him and out from behind the bar. “Shake It Off” is being sung by a lady who has no business trying to be Taylor Swift, but the crowd wouldn’t care if it was a toddler singing it. They are all dancing to the beat on the crowded dance floor.
Watching as Rowan approaches me, I feel a sting in my chest. I imagine she is what the younger version of Gemma looked like. Aside from all the skin showing. Gemma was very reserved—more of a crew neck and knee-length shorts kind of gal.
“You made it,” she says as she hands me a can of Diet Coke. Her way of stopping me before I can even order up a beer. Not that I intended to. I’ve been cutting back on the booze. Trying to deal with life in the right state of mind.
“Thanks.” I side-eye her. “How’d you know I drink Diet Coke?”
“I dunno, maybe because that’s all that’s in the fridge. Did you forget that we live together?”
Live together? Is that what she thinks? Sure, she’s staying at the house for now, but it’s just because she’s biding time until the death certificate arrives.
As if my thoughts were written on my face, she recants her statement, “I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I know that my stay here is temporary.”
“Right.” I nod, tipping back the aluminum can while holding my eyes on hers. An awkward tension plants itself right in the middle of us. The air is suddenly thick and unfulfilling. I can’t help but wonder if she wants to stay in Sunnyville. Sure is making herself comfortable here.
Becky, another bartender, joins us, breaking through the barrier of unease. “Just clocked out. Ready for that duet?” She nudges Rowan.
Much too comfortable.
Three cans of soda later, I’m ready to call it a night. The vast majority of the people here are tipsy. Rowan has been on the stage with Becky at least a dozen times. Okay, it was more like five, but still. The girl can’t sing. She’s having a blast, though, and I guess that’s all that matters. As for me, I’m not digging the scene any longer.
Just as I’m about to announce that I’m heading home, a familiar sound rings in my ears and heads straight to my heart, burrowing deep inside of it. All eyes at the table shoot to me and it suddenly feels as though those first lyrics are clawing at my insides. Grant pushes his chair back and I know exactly what he’s doing, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “It’s fine. I’m leaving anyway.”
Without another word, I’m pushing through the swaying crowd and out the door. Even in the lingering heat, the fresh air hits me like a glass of ice water in the face, snapping me out of my own misery.