All That Remains

by Michele G Miller

  “Yes sir, is there a problem with the powder?”

  He’s first to avert his eyes and look down at the jug of Mega Muscle Protein Powder. “It gave me a rash,” he replies without looking up at me.

  Most of the guys who come in are embarrassed to admit they ended up with a rash. “A rash? Do you have a photo of the rash?” Our return policy on store-brand products are if it gives you a rash, you have to provide a photo. There’s nothing more disgusting than looking at a rash on a stranger.

  “That rule on your policy is pretty intrusive. When I read it, I was floored that it was a real rule.”

  Here we go, he’ll turn off the charm and turn into a douche. I’m sure Sam is doing the countdown in his head. “Yes sir, we must turn in the photo along with the explanation in to our corporate office. Our policy is for quality control and has nothing to do with being intrusive. May I see the picture?”

  He pulls out his cell phone and scrolls through his pictures before holding it up for me to see. Sure enough, it’s a rash… on his ass! He took a selfie of his ass rash in the mirror. He is standing in his boxers and holding one side of them down and taking a picture with his other hand. I need to call Andy and tell her about this, she’s going to die laughing. Dammit! I can’t call her, because she’s dead.

  “I need a print of the picture,” I snap. My mood has gone from good to pissed in two seconds.

  “You really need a picture of my ass to give me a thirty-five dollar refund?”

  I cock my head to the side, my go-to defense pose when I’m hiding my feelings from the world. “I didn’t write the rules, but I follow them.” This is the look Andy called my bitch-face.

  “Look, I’m not going to go print off a picture of my ass to get a thirty-five dollar refund. You can keep the powder and the money.” He shakes his head back and forth before taking his receipt and folding it up neatly before returning it to his wallet.

  I stand at the register and watch him walk out of the store.

  “What happened?” Sam asks.

  “Nothing, I’m following policy,” I reply nonchalantly.

  Sam looks at me like he wasn’t buying it for an instant. “Holland, one minute you were okay and the next you flipped and were pissed off.”

  “I didn’t flip.” I gather up my paperwork to tally out our sales for the day. My dad flips, I just get pissed.

  “I think there’s Pamprin in the office, if you need it,” Sam says sarcastically. Good thing I like him or I’d write him up just because I can.

  “I’m not PMSing and just for that, you get to mop the floor tonight.” Without turning around, I head back to the office. When memories of Andy pop into my head, I’m reminded how lonely life is without her. I’ve been going to her grave and sitting there for hours. She was always my sounding board when it came to my dad, now I feel guilty for all the times I made her listen to me complain. We should have spent more time doing pranks and laughing at stupid movies. Now, I’ll never be able to do those things with someone. Lately, everything reminds me of her and I’ll either cry or get angry. It isn’t that I’m mad at her, it’s I don’t know when the pain will stop. My therapist says dumb things like, time heals all wounds, or everyone grieves differently. The therapist was Aunt Laney’s idea since the health insurance policy she bought for me covers the visits.

  “Knock, knock,” Sam’s voice brings me back to reality. “Hey, do I really have to mop the floor? I have plans after work and I don’t want to smell like bleach and dirty mop water.”

  “I told you to mop not take a bath. I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t ever hint for me to take Pamprin again, okay?”

  “Deal. Your Aunt Laney is in the store, do you want me to send her back here?”

  “No, I’ll go out there.”

  ***

  Devyn is a young adult author who lives in New Bern, North Carolina. When she isn’t reading, she’s spending time with her family or in her office writing.

  www.devyndawson.com

  https://twitter.com/DevynDawson

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Devyn-Dawson/145383098868553?ref=hl

  Me After You

  By

  Mindy Hayes

  Prologue

  I stare at his casket, completely numb. I know I should feel something. My heart should be shattering, but the space where my heart should be is hollow. My chest rises and falls, but I don’t know what’s powering it. I haven’t been able to breathe for days. The air is locked in my lungs with no escape. How have I not suffocated?

  I don’t understand. Why is he in there? He’s supposed to be standing beside me. With me. He’s supposed to be holding my hand, comforting me the best way he knows how, with the brush of his thumb over mine. But no one takes my hand. No one says a word to me. They skirt the edges of my existence, as though sorrow were contagious.

  They told me it would be a closed casket. They couldn’t put him back together to make the man I know. The man I knew.

  Knew. I hate that word.

  I can’t even look at his perfect face one last time. The last image I have of him is not the way I want to remember him.

  Bloodied.

  Swollen.

  Broken.

  He wasn’t supposed to die yet. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t old. It wasn’t his time. How could it have been his time? I don’t understand. Why was it his time?

  They lower him into the ground, and I hear an excruciating sound. It’s piercing. Guttural. Desperate. My hands cover my ears to block it out, but it doesn’t help. Not even a little bit. Please make it stop!

  Someone wraps strong arms around my body, struggling to hold me still, shushing gently in my ear. It’s then I realize it’s me.

  “Sawyer, breathe,” the voice soothes. I don’t know who it is. “C’mon, Soy. Breathe with me.” The voice is so calm. How can it be so calm? I can’t put a name to the person, but my brother is the only one that calls me Soy.

  I gasp for air that doesn’t exist. I keep screaming no, but no one asked me a question. Is that really going to be the last thing I say before he’s officially out of my sight? There’s a wet film over my eyes I can’t see through. I can’t see them lower the casket with my husband inside.

  “I love you, Grayson,” I choke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The voice softly repeats my name over and over, telling me to breathe. But I can’t. The emptiness strangles me.

  There’s nothing they can say. Nothing can calm me.

  He’s gone.

  Nothing else matters now.

  Two Months Later

  Sawyer

  There’s a knock at my bedroom door, but I don’t answer.

  I stare at the two-tone yellow wall of my childhood bedroom, white chair rail separating the pale yellow from the bright. I feel nothing when I look at the wall, so I continue. Feeling nothing is better than feeling everything. My body can’t handle feeling everything anymore.

  It’s been five years since I’ve been back here. When I left home, I promised myself I would never come back. I needed to create a new life away from Willowhaven, a place that didn’t include everything I couldn’t have. There were too many memories, too many raw wounds that only added to the already gaping void in my chest. But when plans fall apart, there’s only one place to start: square one. Plus, I didn’t have much of a choice. He didn’t give me much of a choice.

  Grayson and I weren’t saving. We didn’t get a chance to start. We were hugely in debt from his medical school loans. He was three and a half years in. We were so close to the end. So close to the pay off. We didn’t plan for this. Why would we? There was no way he could have known to stay away from the parking garage that night.

  There’s another knock.

  This town doesn’t feel like home anymore. Home is with Grayson. And I can’t go where Grayson went. No one will let me. So, I no longer have a home. I may have spent the first eighteen years of my life here, but I want to bury those eighteen years, bury the memo
ries they hold. I’m damaged enough as it is. That’s what I am now, isn’t it? Damaged.

  The door creaks open. “Sweetie,” Mom speaks softly as she peeks around the door. I lay on my side, facing the wall, with the cream bedspread pulled up around me and a pillow clutched to my chest, blocking out the world the only way I can. My eyes stare at the buttery paint as it blurs in and out of focus.

  I’ve been home for five days, eight hours and thirty-seven minutes and haven’t moved from this spot. You’d think I would have lost track of time. But time doesn’t move quickly when every part of you aches. It lengthens, making minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days. Time drains you until you have nothing—nothing left to give.

  “Sweetie, it’s two in the afternoon. Do you think maybe you should eat something?” she asks. I hear the rasp in her voice as if she’s been crying.

  I don’t want to answer. The idea of letting her believe I’m still sleeping is so tempting, but I know that will only encourage her to come into the room and touch me. I don’t want to be touched. I want to be left alone. “I’m not hungry,” I mumble.

  “I know, but I’m worried about you. You didn’t eat yesterday. At least drink something. You need to put something in your body. I’m going to bring you some hot chocolate.”

  I don’t respond because I know she will do it whether or not I want her to. She won’t stop until I leave this room, and I don’t plan on leaving this room any time soon. If I lay here long enough maybe the ache will go away. Maybe my body will go numb.

  My heart pulses his name in rhythm with each beat. Grayson. It would be so much easier if I could breathe. Grayson. If someone could remove the vise latched onto my heart. Grayson. The pain is so consuming, so relentless. Grayson.

  It’s been sixty-one days since he was taken from me. The empty space next to me emphasizes his absence, emphasizing how alone I am in this foreign place. My hometown. Sixty-one days and not one day feels better than the last.

  My bedroom door opens, and she shuffles into my room. The mug of hot chocolate clinks as she sets it down on my nightstand. “I’m going to leave it here. Take little sips at least. I promise it will make you feel better.”

  The sweet chocolate smell wafts over to me. I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep in the whimper. She says nothing more, and when she’s gone the floodgates open. Of course she had to bring me hot chocolate.

  Four. That makes four jobs I’ve lost in the six months I’ve lived in Seattle. Whether it’s because of budget cuts or the economy or my attitude, they all found a reason to kick me out on my butt.

  As soon as I walk out from the restaurant where I lost my serving position, it starts to rain. Not a sprinkle, or a mist, but in buckets—a torrential downpour. Awesome.

  I scowl at the sky for choosing the perfect time to open up and cascade its troubles down on me. “I have enough of those in my life, thank you very much!” I almost shout when I’m startled.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t blame the weather.” I turn at the nearness of a new voice. “It’s just doing its job.”

  He stands about a foot taller than me, looking all hipster in his black-rimmed glasses, plaid flannel button-down, and form fitted jeans. Completely the opposite of what I’m used to—which is exactly what I need.

  “Its job must be to ruin my day.”

  “So hostile toward the rain.” He smiles so easily, as if it’s a permanent fixture on his face. “You must not be from around here.” He holds his umbrella up to try and cover me as well, but it’s impossible to keep personal space under an umbrella, so I feel his warm breath on my face and take in the freshness of his scent, like newly cut grass.

  “No, I’m not.” I sigh. I obviously stick out like a sore thumb.

  “What brings you to Seattle?”

  I don’t want to tell this handsome stranger my life story. I want to create a new one—one that doesn’t include all of my losses. I chose to leave them behind. This is supposed to be a life that doesn’t include... I shove his name out of my mind.

  “A change,” I say, swiping the wet strands of hair from my eyes.

  “Change is good. I like change. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I’m Sawyer. Sawyer Hartwell.”

  “Hi, Sawyer Hartwell from...”

  “Willowhaven.”

  He extends his hand to me. “I’m Grayson Jones from Seattle. How about a coffee or hot chocolate to warm you up from the weather’s cold shoulder?”

  I chuckle. “Hot chocolate?”

  “There are a surprising amount of people in this world who don’t drink coffee. On the off chance you were one of them, I thought I would leave the option open.”

  I allow myself a smile, and even if it’s only for a moment, I want to spend a little more time with him. Maybe it will numb the pain chasing me down thousands of miles from home.

  “Hot chocolate sounds great.”

  ***

  Mindy is the author of the YA Fantasy Faylinn series, Kaleidoscope (Faylinn #1), Ember (Faylinn #2), and Luminary (Faylinn #3) and as well as the Contemporary Romance, Me After You (Willowhaven #1). Currently, she's working on Me Without You (Willowhaven #2).

  She grew up in San Diego, California exploring her interest for singing and playing the piano. Mindy first discovered her passion for reading when she had to make her first flight alone to South Carolina to visit her, then, fiancé. Her love for writing followed shortly after. Mindy and her husband have now been married for six years and live in Summerville, South Carolina.

  You can visit Mindy online:

  mindyhayes.com

  facebook.com/hayes.mindy

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Blurb

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty- Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  A Note From The Author

  Other Titles by Author

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  If you’ve loved the From The Wreckage series

  Killing Me Softly

  Me After You