Page 76 of Golden Touch
We collapse on the bed, completely spent, and it’s over. I’m still sucking in oxygen when Nash flips me onto my side once more and kisses me quickly. “You amaze me.”
I pant, taking in his big brown eyes at close range.
I think I’ll miss those most of all.
Nash is truly late by the time we get cleaned up. He vaults out of the shower and into his clothes. Then he runs out of the pumphouse without even waiting for the coffee to brew.
But it’s better this way. He’ll probably be angry when he realizes what I’m about to do.
That bothers me more than it should, because Nash will assume I’m a coward. And maybe it’s partly true. I don’t want to face down Razor again—in a dark alley, or a courtroom. I’m afraid of that man.
Although cowardice isn’t my only motivation for leaving. It’sjust easier for everyone concerned. Nash doesn’t need Razor breathing down his neck.
You’re too much trouble, Ivy,my mom used to say.Always causing drama. And that’s exactly what’s happening here.
So it’s time to start packing.
Even though I’ve been living here for a long time, packing up my belongings doesn’t take much time. All my clothes fit inside a single big suitcase. My books fit into a single box.
The kitchen implements are a problem. Most of them are thrift-store finds, and it will be hard to give them up, but packing them all and making multiple trips to my car would be a problem. Someone on the loading dock is bound to ask questions.
With this in mind, and because I still have two bulky items to fit into the car, I wait until the shipping clerk takes his lunch break. When he clears out, I balance my box atop my suitcase and roll everything to the loading dock.
After placing the stuff in my car, I head back to the pumphouse. I eat a bowl of soup and then carefully wash the bowl and spoon. I tuck a box of granola bars into my purse, along with a can of soda water.
I’m stalling now, mostly because I’m sad.
I glance around the place one last time. This little apartment has been my sanctuary. Imperfect as it is, I hate the idea of leaving it behind. Even worse—I hate the idea of sneaking away like a thief in the night. The thought of leaving Lyle and Nash in the lurch gives me a pain right behind my breastbone.
I’ll miss seeing Lyle back on his feet.
I never even got to meet Leila’s baby.
And I’ll never get another one of Nash’s hugs.
Ouch. That’s what hurts the worst. But Nash would have gone back to Boston in a few weeks anyway. I can’t plan my life around him.
After one more deep breath, I make myself shoulder my carryon bag and leave. I lock the pumphouse door and head intothe brewery building. In the office, I push the rolling library ladder over to the second bookshelf on the left, and I climb up.
For the last time, I pull down my favorite ledger, the one marked LIVIA’S SUPER TOP SECRET STUFF on the spine, where I’ve been concealing all my cash. I remove the cigar box from inside and tuck it under my arm. Then I pull a thumb drive out of my pocket and quickly tape it into the ledger before climbing back down.
That’s the evidence for Benito. I’ll email him where to find it.
The cigar box goes into my carryon tote, and I turn toward the door. It feels wrong not to leave a note. But it’s no use writing platitudes, because nobody will truly understand why I need to go.
With a heavy heart, I walk into the corridor, pausing for a moment to listen to the voices in the brewhouse. It’s not a tasting-room day, so I only hear the shouts of the brewers over the swish of water flowing into a tank. And the clank of a brush against the metal sides.
Someone laughs, and I recognize it as Badger’s chuckle. And then Connor makes a comeback, and they all crack up. I strain my ears, trying to pick out Nash’s voice in the mix. But I can’t.
I’ve been happy here. As happy as possible, anyway. Friendships are hard when you have to keep people at a distance. After I leave, they’ll forget about me before the snow comes again.
Go on, dummy.Get out of here, before someone asks what the hell you’re doing.
I finally get a move-on, taking the back route through the storage room and into the quiet loading dock. I hustle over to the door mechanism and push the button.
With a series of metallic clanks, the door begins to retract toward the ceiling. I hurry to my car, open the driver’s door, and slide in. I wrestle my carryon into the passenger seat and grab the keys out of the cupholder.
That’s when a hand emerges from the backseat and lands on my shoulder. And I scream bloody murder.
