Page 26 of Don't Forget Me
A roar ripped from his throat as he sank onto his knees, his eyes trained on the water. Drinking and driving.
Was that what it had come to for him?
Had anyone else been hurt?
If he woke, he’d never forgive himself for putting others in danger. Sure, he was self-destructive, but that had only ever been about him.
His back shook as he buried his face in his hands, unable to look his enemy in the face any longer.
This lake… it was once family to him until it destroyed his real family. Maybe Stephen was wrong. Maybe this was hell.
Sleep was hard to come by at the lake house, but not for lack of trying. Nick never managed to turn off his brain long enough to let it calm. He’d stayed out on the deck as the light faded from the sky and dark, rolling clouds closed in overhead.
He hadn’t moved when the first drop of rain hit his cheek or the second.
When thunder ripped through the sky, it tore him out of his own thoughts, and he’d made it inside before the skies opened up. Liz hadn’t been in the kitchen when he returned, but a light underneath her bedroom door told him she was okay.
He hadn’t been kind, and now, as he lay in bed listening to the storm raging outside his window, he could think of little else.
There was a delicate air about Liz that was betrayed by the way her gaze cut through him. It was a contradiction, and he found himself wanting to know what made her that way.
How did she have the ability to fight for herself—and him—when their situation was all but hopeless? If he was being honest, a part of him didn’t think he would ever get out of here.
Liz had let him storm away from her. She’d let him spend hours outside cursing this place and getting everything out. There’d been no comfort from her as Beatrice would have given, no sarcasm like Stephen preferred.
If it had been Sherrie, she’d have followed him just to start a fight, making it about her. Everything was about her.
Maybe it was because Liz was a stranger and didn’t care what he did or felt, but it went deeper than that. He could tell.
Reaching for the bedside table, he turned on the lamp and grabbed the book he’d read twice now since coming back. It was one of the first things he’d looked for.
The script.
Stephen hadn’t dreamed of only managing Nick’s career. He’d wanted to see one of his own movies on screen, characters he’d written. Their last year together, Nick found Stephen’s script—the first and only he ever had a chance to complete. He had one copy bound into a book as a Christmas present. The other sat in a desk in the study he had yet to venture into.
Now, the words were all Nick had left of Stephen.
Leaning back in bed, he let the drumming of the rain provide the backdrop for the story he’d burned into his mind.
He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but when he opened his eyes again, it looked as if nothing had changed. He shielded his eyes from the light of the lamp before turning it off and sliding off the bed to walk toward the window.
Outside, the world was still dark, with only minimal light breaking through the cloud cover. The rain had turned to a drizzle, but Nick knew the storms at the lake. Sometimes, in the early summer, they could last for weeks.
Not wanting to break the peace by turning on the lights, he fumbled his way across the room. There were no working clocks nearby, so he wasn’t quite sure what time it was, but it had to be early morning.
The dark sky might fool him, but the rumbling of his stomach never did. He just needed a bowl of his Lucky Charms, and he’d be good.
When he opened the door, he stopped. Sitting on the ground was a plastic tray holding a plate piled high with pancakes and sausage links with a glass of orange juice.
He peered around the corner as he lifted it, wondering where Liz had gone. The plate was still warm, so she had to have just made these.
Carrying the tray, he walked into the kitchen, but a clean pan and bowl on the drying rack told him he’d missed her.
Nick walked back to his room and shut the door, flipping on the light before sitting on the bed.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone cooked for him when they weren’t paid to do so. After the night before, his throat was raw. The juice stung, but he drank it all down without taking a breath.
Liz had witnessed something he hadn’t let anyone see in years of the famous Nick Jacobs.
