by Ellie Wade
Captivated Souls
Ellie Wade
Contents
Other Titles by Ellie Wade
Untitled
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Ellie Wade
About the Author
Other Titles by Ellie Wade
The Flawed Heart Series
Finding London
Keeping London
Loving London
Eternally London
Taming Georgia
The Choices Series
A Beautiful Kind of Love
A Forever Kind of Love
A Grateful Kind of Love
The Beautiful Souls Collection
Bared Souls
Kindred Souls
Captivated Souls
Stand-alones
Fragment
Forever Baby
A Hundred Ways to Love
Chasing Memories
Please visit Ellie’s Website for more information on her other books.
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Copyright © 2021 by Ellie Wade
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.elliewade.com
Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Editor: Jenny Sims, www.editing4indies.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-944495-28-2
For Anna Brooks, who is one of the most amazing supports I have in this industry. Thank you for being my friend, my sounding-board, and my therapist. lol Your love and support mean more to me than you could ever imagine. Love you!
Prologue
Quinn
I clutch the front door handle and pull in a fortifying breath. I don’t know what to expect when I enter my best friend’s house, and that terrifies me.
I’m not good with death, nor being with people while they deal with it. Perhaps it’s a major flaw, but it’s the reality of who I am. I want to be good with it. I’d love to be the person who knows what to do in awkward and heartbreaking situations. There’s always that one woman, we’ll call her Sue, who’s a life saver at all events. Sue’s the one who shows up to funerals with a giant purse containing literally everything. She pulls extra packets of tissues out of her bag for all who need it, and painkillers for those with horrible tension headaches from too much crying, and snacks for those who’ve been so lost in misery that they forgot to eat. If there is a need, Sue will reach into her magic bag and pull out the solution.
I want to be a Sue, especially for those I love the most, and have the remedies my friend needs, but I’m not a Sue, not even close.
I’m the girl who walked down the aisle at her grandmother’s funeral years ago, not realizing the skirt of my dress was stuck in the waistband of my nylons, revealing my hot pink “Tuesday” panties to the church full of mourners. To make matters worse, my grandmother’s funeral was on a Saturday. Moments later at said funeral, I got a tickle in my throat during my uncle’s eulogy and was trapped in one of those never-ending coughing fits while he was up at the podium pouring his soul out for all those who loved my grandmother. I know that whatever he said was beautiful; I just wasn’t able to hear it while hacking up a lung.
The story of my grandmother’s funeral is typical Quinn. I have the best of intentions, but I often fail to execute them correctly in awkward situations.
Sure, anyone can have a bad day. The unintentional peep show and coughing fit could’ve happened to anyone. But they aren’t isolated incidents. A co-worker’s mother died a couple of years ago, and during the funeral service, someone’s loud and obnoxious cell phone rang out during a moment of prayer. I kept my eyes closed, silently chastising the inconsiderate fool who didn’t silence their phone for a funeral until the person to my right nudged me with their elbow, clueing me in to the fact that the inconsiderate asshole was indeed myself.
Later at the reception for that funeral, I asked my co-worker’s sister when she was due as she appeared to be about eight months pregnant. Her red and offended face huffed in anger before she rolled her eyes and stormed off—far away from me. I knew better, too. I’ve never asked a woman if she was pregnant unless I was a hundred percent sure that she was. I’m normally a very kind and considerate person, but the sister and I were talking about her late mother, whom I had never met, and it was awkward and uncomfortable. I had wanted to lighten the dark moment with a brief conversation about something a little more positive. What is more positive than a new life entering the world, a perfect little baby? Maybe my change in topic would’ve worked if the sister had indeed been with child. But alas, I’ll never know because the sister hates me, and I’m pretty sure my co-worker hates me now, too. We were never the same after that, and she’s now transferred to another department.
There are other incidents of my grand inadequacies when it comes to dealing with death over the years. I’m pretty sure I’ve blocked a lot of them out, too. I mean, who wants to remember the worst parts of themselves?
My friend Amos texted me to let me know he had a work meeting he couldn’t get out of and suggested I pop by our mutual best friend Alma’s house to keep her company, seeing that she buried her husband, the love of her life, two days ago. Amos is a Sue, at least when it comes to Alma. He always knows what she needs before she needs it. Though, I’m wondering if his intuitive abilities might be slacking a bit since he thought it wise to send me.
No, I’m not a ten-year-old girl at her grandmother’s funeral. I’m a grown woman, and my best friend needs me. I can do this.
I plaster on a smile and open the door. Wait. A smile definitely isn’t appropriate. Dropping the cheesy grin, I attempt to appear concerned and helpful…whatever that face looks like. This isn’t going to go well.
“Alma, it’s me,” I call out in the large foyer to no response. Stepping farther into the house, I follow the sound of the television to the living room, where Alma sits cross-legged on the sofa staring at the screen.
She looks awful, and I don’t mean that in a cruel way. She simply doesn’t look well. Her long brunette
hair hangs in tangled strands with part of it matted to the side of her head. She has dark bags under her eyes, making it appear as if she hasn’t slept in days. She probably hasn’t. The skin around her eyes is swollen from crying, and my heart breaks for her.
“Hey,” I say gently as I close the gap between us. She doesn’t pull her gaze from the television. Turning toward the screen, I notice there’s an infomercial for a vacuum airing. “Is this what you want to watch?” I sit beside her, grabbing the remote from the end table. “Alma,” I say more forcefully.
She slowly rotates her face toward me as if just realizing I’m here.
“Hi,” I say with a sad smile. “Can I find you something else to watch?”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I flip through the guide to the streaming service currently airing Friends. Alma and I spent many nights in college watching this show. It’s one of our favorites.
“You can’t go wrong with Friends, right? Can I get you something to eat or drink? Do you need anything done? I could do your laundry. Oh, or I could load the dishwasher or paint your nails?” Nonsense explodes from my mouth. Paint her nails? Shut up, Quinn.
Alma looks at me, her expression blank.
“I’m sorry,” I say, moving closer to Alma on the couch and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “I’m not very good at this stuff. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, and I love you. If you need anything, just ask. Okay?” I squeeze her shoulders.
She nods and turns back to the TV.
Ross, one of the best characters, is on the screen talking about the importance of Unagi, and I chuckle. Alma’s body starts to shake as a flood of tears leaks from her eyes. Shit.
“Alma, it’s okay. Oh…” I lean my head against hers. “I’m so sorry.”
I want to say so much more, but I leave it as a simple apology because I am—so sorry—for her. It’s not right that someone so young has to lose her husband in such a horrific way. I’m sorry I don’t know what to do to help her through this. I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do to heal the pain in her heart.
Grabbing the pillow to my side, I set it in my lap and pat it, urging Alma to lie down. She complies, laying her head in my lap. I throw the small blanket on the back of the couch over her and run my hand across her head, smoothing down her hair as she sobs against the pillow.
“Shh, it’s okay,” I say again. “You’ll be okay.”
Alma’s sobbing drowns out the show, so I mute it.
No other words are spoken. Alma cries while I go through my head trying to figure out how I can help her, only to come up blank. Eventually, her sobs cease, and her breathing steadies as she falls asleep.
I’ve never been so happy for someone to fall asleep in my life. She clearly needs the rest, but beyond that, I can’t mess this up.
At Alma’s husband Leo’s funeral, I held it together for the most part. Amos was there, of course, so he was able to attend to all of Alma’s needs. I spent a lot of my time with Alma’s parents, who were stoned, to make sure they didn’t do or say anything to upset Alma. I don’t think I could’ve ruined that day anyway. I could’ve shown up to that funeral in just a thong, and I wouldn’t be what people remembered from that day.
The funeral was at Leo’s estranged parents’ mansion. Alma wasn’t happy about the location, to begin with, and while Leo’s father delivered the eulogy, she stood, yelled, and called the father out on his treatment of Leo over the years in front of everyone. It was a nightmare, the whole ordeal. Not Alma—she was brave. Her loyalty and fierce love for her husband shined through her tears as she spoke. But everything else, from the way in which Leo died to the stories of his past abuse, was so heavy.
The air in this house, the complete sadness, the utter heartbreak Alma is going through is heavy, too. It’s suffocating.
I watch Friends on mute and sit as still as I can while Alma naps with her head in my lap. I swear I hardly breathe, too afraid that I’ll wake her. Six episodes and a little over two hours later, the sound of the front door opening is music to my ears.
Amos enters the living room with bags of reinforcements. A total Sue move. He sets down a bottle of Gatorade that I know Alma needs desperately. I can tell by her chapped lips that she’s dehydrated. I’m not sure what food he brought, but it smells delicious, and I hope it’s good enough to tempt even the saddest of hearts.
“How is she?” he asks, voice low.
I just shake my head.
He nods in understanding. “Do you want to stay for dinner? I have plenty.”
“No. I should go.” I slide out from under Alma’s head, setting the pillow against the couch cushions.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I reassure him. “I’ll touch base soon. Call me if you need anything.” This last sentence makes me cringe.
With a weak hug, I excuse myself and bolt out of the house. As I close the front door behind me, I pull in a deep breath, my first one in hours. I get into my car and shut the door. Draping my arms on the steering wheel, I lean my forehead against it and cry—full-on, back-shaking sobs.
I hated seeing Alma like that, so broken. She’s always been so strong and full of life. Leo ruined her life, and I’m devastated for her. How will she come back from this? My heart shatters for my friend, and I wish I could take her pain away, but I can’t even be helpful for two hours. I’m inept with all this. She needs help, obviously. I’ve never seen someone so sad in my entire life. I just don’t know what to do to make it better. The fact is, it will never be better because he’s gone.
A knock on my window pulls me from my thoughts, and I lift my head. Amos peers in and opens the door.
He reaches his hand out to me. “Come here,” he says, pulling me up out of the car and into a hug.
I cry against his chest. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything to help her. She’s so sad, and I didn’t know what to do. She just cried and cried, Amos. It was horrible. She’s not okay.”
He rubs my back. “I know, but she will be.”
I shake my head. “She won’t. Her heart is broken, and I’m useless. What can I do?”
“You’re not useless. You did everything you could. You made sure she knew that she wasn’t alone, that she is loved. That’s all we can do. It’s going to take time. She’ll get better, Quinn. I promise.”
“I’m so worried about her.” I take a step back and look up into his eyes.
“Give her time,” he reassures me. “She’ll be okay.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say on a sigh.
“I am. Are you okay to drive home? You can stay a while?”
I pat his arms. “No, not everyone’s a Sue, Amos.”
“What?” He chuckles.
“Nothing. Just…she’s lucky to have you.”
“She’s lucky to have you, too. Your love and support, just as you are, is enough.”
I attempt a grin. “Thank you. I’ll call tomorrow.”
As I pull away from Alma’s, I’m overcome with a crippling fear. I’m sure Amos is right and that Alma will bounce back from this, but I know for a fact I never could. I’m a mess in all situations involving death. I’d be completely useless and beyond help if death came for someone I loved as much as Alma loved Leo. I’ll never put myself in a position to lose my love in the manner in which Alma lost hers. I need a love that’s incredible but safe.
If I loved someone as much as she loved her husband, and then I lost him—it would destroy me, and no amount of time would make it okay. I’ve always been tough, and fear has never held me back. Yet with love, I can’t take the risk, especially now seeing the fallout firsthand. Maybe it’s another personal flaw, but I’m just not that strong.
Chapter 1
Quinn
Perfection is relative with boundaries so infinite it’s impossible to measure. I could step outside of myself in this very moment, become a fly on the wall peering down with utter cluelessness, and think—she’s reached it. The life.
Beau, my beautiful boyfriend, is rubbing my feet at this very moment because the Louboutins I wore all day at work were not kind to me. And when I say he’s beautiful, I mean it. He’s as gorgeous as they come, kind, successful, and good in bed. Let’s face it—all those things matter, or at least I thought they did.
Now, I’m not so sure.
I’m the middle child, born directly between two older and two younger sisters. Yet the middle child syndrome that everyone jokes and posts memes about on social media couldn’t be further from my reality. I was too busy being seen to ever be ignored. Meek and quiet are two adjectives that have never been used to describe me, of that I’m certain. I’ve gone after what I’ve wanted and chased my dreams since I could remember.
At twenty-seven, I’ve built an incredible life for myself. I took a fashion and business degree that qualified me as nothing more than a glorified fitting-room attendant and worked my way up to the top. I’m now the district manager at the biggest department store in our area. I make good money and love my job.
I’ve nurtured the relationships in my life that matter and have incredible friends who are like family to me. I live in a city I love, in an adorable little house that I bought on my own.
