I jerk out a nod, thawing slightly.
“Tell me you’ll be careful.”
Sighing, I nod again. This one isn’t as tight as the first one.
Beth’s right. She’s looking out for me like she’s always done. The least I can do is not make things difficult for her.
But when she leaves, I hear it again.
Willow’s voice.
It’s soft and scratchy, a little hoarse. The kind of a voice that can get stuck inside a man’s head.
The only reason I don’t do it is because I can’t take leaving something behind.
***
It’s raining inside the room.
I watch the droplets hitting the old hardwood floor, forming a small puddle.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
The ceiling in the study is leaking. The discolored patch growing, expanding right in front of my eyes.
Fuck.
This is probably the third time I’ve seen it happen in the last week alone. No matter how much I fix this house, plaster over the cracks, there’s no saving it.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and think about probably getting outside help. Maybe I can hire someone to come do this for me. In fact, I should. I don’t have time to fix this house.
I don’t even know why I’m fixing this piece of crap. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. But I took Dean and his sister out for a pizza because apparently, he was in the mood for one. That’s what he told me, but I know the truth.
I could guess. His dad was out of town and he was scared. I would be, too. In fact, I was that kid.
When I dropped them off, instead of driving away, I walked inside this house. And instead of walking right back out, I decided to work on the stairs leading down to the basement.
I have no idea why my father let it get this bad, the apparent perfectionist.
Either way, it’s not mine, this house. It never was. It never will be. I don’t want it. Like I don’t want Heartstone or my father’s legacy.
I can’t wait to get back to Boston. That’s my life. But then again, I don’t know if I’m going to get it back.
Reaching for my cellphone on the desk, I approach the window and dial the number I’ve been wanting to. I know it’s late at night, but he won’t be sleeping.
It rings a couple of times before I hear the click.
“Simon,” Greg, my colleague and only friend at Mass General, greets me from the other side.
“Hey,” I say, staring at the willow tree in my backyard.
I spent a lot of time under that tree while growing up and ever since I got back, I can’t look away from it. That tree has survived a lot. The years of me growing up, my mother’s death, my leaving.
That tree is a survivor. A fighter.
“You’re not pulling the plug.” I almost crush the phone in my hand. “You’re not killing her.”
“She’s dead already,” Greg snaps.
I clench my eyes shut at the onslaught of pain. It should feel hot, this magnitude of pain. Red and pulsating. But in my experience, my pains have always had a chill to them. A sting. A frostiness.
A partial numbness where all I can feel is the cold, the hard center of it, and nothing else.
“Look,” Greg says. “You can’t even think about getting yourself involved with Claire any more than you already are, Simon. They’re going to see your money, your phone calls as a sign of guilt.”