Page 11 of Unstable

“We’ll see,” I mutter as I jerk my knee out from under his grip and turn the key, letting the motor snuff out the opportunity for any more conversation.

He’s a pretty talker, makes it sound so easy…but I’ve never been much of a writer.

IT WAS A GRUELING day. It’s a big farm, and covering all those acres on an ATV has me conceding defeat by nightfall. The downstairs bathroom only has a shower, and my body needs a good, long soak. Even more so, I need to relax as much as possible so my mind can try to contemplate the many big decisions I need to make.

Which means, I’m going to have to brave going upstairs. To take a hot bath…in the bathroom we once shared.

While I stand at the bottom, staring up at each looming step with an aching grip on the banister, I debate a few things. Like, if while I’m up there, should I go ahead and grab my mother’s burial outfit? And if maybe, I should quit being a chickenshit and open our bedroom door? Perhaps even get a comfortable night’s sleep in a bed, my old bed, rather than the archaic, lumpy couch?

One stair, the hardest, initial ascent of bravery, is all I have hurdled when there’s a knock at the door.

I can’t decide whether to praise divinity for the intervention or laugh at the irony—one step forward, one knock back. Such is my life.

I open the door to Gatlin, brown hair still damp from the shower he obviously took, dressed in worn jeans, a faded tee, and his scuffed cowboy boots.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not meaning for it to sound as rude as I hear it come out.

“Thought I’d check on you, know it was a lot for you today. How ya feeling?”

“Eh,” I shrug, shifting back to give him room to enter. The breeze follows him inside and carries with it a hint of his natural, manly scent complimented perfectly by a subdued trace of fresh, clean cologne, the lethal combination making things a bit hazy. That fuzziness in my head is my only excuse for what I blurt out next.

“You knew my mother. Any idea what outfit she’d want to be buried in?”

That’s definitely one way of ignoring your attraction to a guy…ask him about your dead mother’s attire.

The pity in his downturned lips slays me, and I immediately regret my spontaneous outburst. “Never mind, dumb question. Anyway, I’m fine, thanks for checking on me. You can go now.”

“Henley, don’t assume to always know what I’m thinking and instantly jump on the defensive. Death is sad, simple as that. Doesn’t mean I think you’re weak or pitiful. And yes, I can help you pick out something for her to wear. Do you want to do that now?"

I nod, turning to lead him that way. “Might as well get it over with. I’m not sure I’m the right person to—”

A large, strong hand gently laid on my shoulder silences me, and this time, I don’t flinch. “Of course you are, but I understand, everything, and I’m happy to help. Let’s go, I’m right behind you.” He assures me in a calm baritone, his presence at my back intense, yet surprisingly comforting.

I think back to what Donna said about Jack’s quick, impersonal finalizations and part of me wants to ask Gatlin about it— why the kind regard for my mother and not his own father… but I don’t. This task is heavy enough already.

We walk in silence and head up the staircase, me in the front, my legs shaking so badly it’s a very real possibility I may fall at any second. But he’s behind me, and even only knowing him for the short time I have, I know he’ll catch me, should that happen.

When we reach the top, I freeze, taking in the window to our immediate right. The same stick shoved in the bottom of the frame to keep it locked. I always thought it was a silly, a meaningless safeguard. If a burglar wanted in, all they’d have to do is break the glass…after scaling the two-story roof, of course. But if we wanted out, we simply had to remove the stick…which we did, often.

“To stargaze?” Gatlin asks with a dash of amusement. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken the thought out loud, and would now look a fool not to answer.

“Yes and no.” The words come out wispy. “The stars were there, so I’m sure some gazing happened. But mostly, it was our spot. To plan our lives after Ashfall—where we’d go, what we’d see, who we’d grow up to be.”

I wait for him to ask me who “we” is, but he doesn’t. I take his silence as further confirmation of my earlier assumption…he knows.

I have absolutely no problem going along with his obvious “let’s not bring it up” plan, so I shatter the pause in conversation. “Anyway,” I say louder than intended, “that’s it,” I point. “My mother’s room. You have a good idea what clothes we’re looking for? I want to be in and out.”

“I understand, we’ll be quick. Take a breath.” He waits for me to do so, then smiles warmly. “Okay, let’s go.”

The knob turns too easily, despite my trembling hand, and the door seems to swing itself open…as though inanimate objects know to team up and work against my delay. I keep my eyes trained solely on my destination—the closet, in the far corner of the room—and hustle there diligently. I breathe through my mouth, not wanting to smell her scent, and comb through hanger after hanger of choices as fast as I can.

I don’t know what she’d want to wear. I can’t, I cannot—

“How about this?” Gatlin’s voice somehow fights its way through my building panic and cascades over me like a balm.

I look past the tiny starbursts of anxiety dancing in my vision to see him holding up a long, black skirt and a cream blouse with lace covered buttons. She did always love lace. I nod and snatch the garments from him, making a beeline for the door. But I don’t move fast enough, and fail to keep my blinders on as I had when I’d entered, my own traitorous eyes wandering to the montage on the wall.

Pictures, so many pictures, hung in chaotic pattern. Some small, some large, all heart-wrenching and baffling. How could she look at them every single day and not be crippled with misery? They’re not scattered all over the house. No…she’d picked out this spot, in the privacy of her room, to what? Agonize in private? Make sure she cried herself to sleep each night?

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