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Heidi *Bookwyrm Babe, Voyeur of Covers, Caresser of Spines, Unashamed Smut Slut, the Always Sleepy Wyrm of the Stacks, and Drinker of Tea and Wine*
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Sometimes I wonder how the man views himself when he looks in the mirror—truly views himself. What does he see when he strips back that perfect, persevering outer layer? Does he see a man who failed his wife and family by chasing after a younger woman? A man whose infidelity ultimately cost that young woman her life? A man whose ex-wife rots away in a prison cell an hour from here all because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants? Something tells me he sees none of that. His ego won’t let him.
It’s better to leave the past where it is. Over the years, I’ve found that if I carry too many things with me, the load gets unbearably heavy.
It’s always fascinated me how the mere presence of certain people brings out sides of us we didn’t know existed, forcing us to be something we’re not, if only for a temporary moment.
How many other heartbroken people in this world catapult an entire life off someone who merely qualifies as the next best thing? A knockoff of what they really want? How many children are born from these unions? How many lives are lived half-fulfilled? How many spouses know the truth? Do they ever learn to love, really love, the one they’re with? How many people take these secrets to their grave?
The mere notion of someone being elated to see me is farcical. I don’t bring joy to people’s lives—quite the opposite. I’m a rain cloud. I bring thunder, lightning, dusk, and gloom.
“Have a safe trip home, Grace,” she adds, curt and quick or perhaps distracted. “It was lovely to finally meet you.” The line goes dead. But her words echo in my head: “It was lovely to finally meet you.”
There’s nothing the man can say to undo what’s been done, and he’ll never understand the full effects of his actions or how they’ve trickled through me and spilled over to the Whitlocks. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: the man is bulletproof. Everything ricochets off him. Everything.
“I know you don’t like hugs,” Bliss says, eyes welling. “But I’m going to hug you.” It’s strange, this moment. But after the day I’ve had, I allow it. I don’t have the energy not to. I let someone hug me—and for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t kill me. In fact, I’ve never felt more alive.
