The Dead Husband, Carter Wilson [best fantasy books to read txt] 📗

say. I struggle to rise and he reaches his hand out to help.

I buck against my Yates instincts to reject help for fear it projects weakness and take his hand. He lifts me with no effort, as if just pulling a weed from his lawn.

“I think the only thing bruised is my ego,” I say.

He smiles and I’m blinded by a perfect set of teeth.

“I’ve done worse,” he said. “I was on a first date and tried going through a revolving door that was locked in place. Walked right into the glass. Even got a bloody nose. There was no second date.”

“That’s definitely worse,” I say. A part of me wants to know how long ago that date was. Another part of me is immensely distracted by the back of my soaking-wet shorts.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you…” I let the last word dangle.

“Alec. Alec Wallin. This is my place here.”

“Yup, I assumed that. You working in the yard and all.”

“I could’ve been the hired help.”

I’m not quite sure what to say to this. My father would instantly quip Yard work is for Mexicans, not Blacks.

I clear my throat. “I’m Rose. Yates.”

His eyes widen just a hair. “Ah, Rose Yates.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that I’ve heard of you. That you’re back in town after having grown up here. And…oh, hell, I’m sorry. I heard about your husband. That’s just awful.”

“Thank you.” I wonder how long the I’m sorrys will last. “I didn’t realize I was part of the gossip mill already.”

“Well, if you grew up here, you know how this place is. I’ve been here ten years. My name’s been dragged around town its own fair share.” His gaze does a quick sweep of the sky, as if he’s scanning a force field trapping him here. “Actually, I think you know my ex-wife. You went to school with her. Tasha Collins.”

Bam.

This is how Harry Potter felt hearing the name Voldemort spoken aloud.

Tasha Collins.

“Tasha?” I say. I can’t even pretend to hide my distaste. “I don’t even know—”

He holds a hand up. “I know. You don’t have to say anything. Just don’t hold it against me. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Tasha Collins was the clichéd popular girl in high school, though everyone I knew hated her. Her popularity stemmed from her physical gorgeousness. She was hated because every other part of her was ugly. A massive flaunter of money in a place where everyone was swimming in it already. Dumb as dirt. And bitterly mean to anyone she spoke to, including her friends. Last I heard of her, she was going off to Tufts for college, though I can’t imagine how she ever would have graduated.

“Tasha still lives here?”

“Oh yeah,” Alec says. “Only reason I’m still here. I won’t give up seeing my boy.”

So Tasha Collins married an African American man. I have to admit, that’s more progressive than I would have credited her with being.

“When I was twelve, she once called me Pancake Tits,” I tell him. I can’t believe I just said this, but the memory came back with such jarring force I couldn’t help myself.

Alec looks properly taken aback for about two seconds before laughter takes over. From-the-gut laughter, and I can’t help but join in.

“Yeah, that sounds like her,” he says.

“Maybe she got better after high school?”

Alec wipes a film of sweat off his forehead and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“But you still married her?”

He grimaces. Only word for it.

“Let’s just say I didn’t know Tasha well when she got pregnant. Not sure we would’ve ever stayed together if not for Micah—that’s my boy. We made it last as long as we could. And I can’t say I was the perfect husband either. Micah’s better with his mom and me under different roofs, that’s for sure.” He shifts his footing and gives me a gaze I could get lost in.

“I can understand that.”

Alec lets out another laugh, this one softer. “I’m normally not so open. Certainly not with someone I just met.”

“How does it feel?” I ask.

He thinks about it for a moment, then smiles. “Good.”

The ensuing silence lasts long enough to make me nervous. I brush a few stray strands of grass off the backs of my thighs and say, “I better finish my run.”

“Okay, Rose. Nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Okay, then,” I say, hearing a tiny bit of Wisconsin accent come out. I turn and carefully make my way across the grass and onto the street, where I start jogging again.

The only thing distracting me from the uncomfortable wet stain on my butt is wondering if Alec notices.

Ten

What kind of woman is attracted to another man less than two months after her husband’s death?

Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, a way of dealing with grief. Or perhaps it was such a transient, innocent attraction that it doesn’t even warrant analysis. After all, I’m just human, and a still-youngish, heterosexual female version at that. I’d challenge any others in my category to stand face-to-face with Alec Wallin without the smallest of stirrings.

But I know the true answer is altogether more fierce.

I didn’t love my husband.

In the beginning, there was the facsimile of love best described as passionate infatuation. I wanted to be around Riley every hour. Share experiences together. Spend days naked in bed. Travel wherever our whims took us. I suspect the line between love and a desperate fear of loneliness is drawn in wet ink and easily smudged.

When I left Bury for college, damage seeped into every decision I made. At Northwestern, I studied both journalism and criminal justice, perhaps knowing on some level that writing about crime would someday be necessary for my conscience.

I dated boys who were the opposite of my father. I preferred the wild, the carefree, the spontaneous. I wanted smiles, not squints.

Riley was so different from my father that it was easy to think I was in love.

In those days, Riley had an adventurous spirit, a sharp intellectual curiosity, and an insatiable need to