Page 2 of The Temptation of Truth
I was swept up in it at first. I was desperate for something to pull me from the thick fog of sadness. Hungry for some semblance of security and the promise to be part of a family again. But I’ve been growing weary. I’ve been quietly questioning everything. Secretly, I wish he were, too, and that fills me with guilt.
I reach across the center console and rest my hand on his thigh.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It will happen.”
He grabs my wrist and moves it back to my lap. “Do you even want it to?”
“What?” I furrow my brow and force a swallow. “Of course I do. Why would you even ask that?”
“Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Brady jabs at the radio button and turns up the volume, but I can’t hear the music over the echo of his question repeating in my ears.
Do you even want it to?
Do I?
An answer starts to form that makes my stomach cramp, but I force it away. It’s just fear talking. It’s just selfishness. It’s not real.
Of course, I repeat to myself.Of course I want it.
How could I want anything else?
When my phone rings, I check the time on the stove.
I have fifteen minutes until dinner is ready. My uncle never calls for small talk, so the conversation should be quick. I take a seat at the kitchen island and answer.
“Uncle Wade, hey.”
“Aurora. How are you?”
I can’t help but grin at his familiar, all-business tone. My uncle is about as personable as a boulder, but he’s still one of my favorite people.
“Great. How are you?”
“Good.”
“What country are you in right now?”
“America.”
“Oh,” I say with a laugh. “This is a long break for you guys.”
Uncle Wade works as the manager for a popular band called The Hometown Heartless. I never know where he is in the world, but the band’s taken some time off recently. I’m not used to him being in one place for so long.
“It has been, but we’ll be touring again soon.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“You mean you haven’t been keeping tabs on me?”
I can hear a hint of playfulness in his voice. It’s rare, but he’s always had a smile for me.
“I’ve no time to keep up with your jet-setting ways, Sawyer Wade Hammond,” I joke, mimicking my mother’s tone. “My life may not be as glamorous as yours, but I’ve been quite busy.”
“Ah, you’re writing again?”
The question is like a zap of static electricity. Not sharp enough to hurt—not physically, anyway—but I still wince.
