West Coast Soulmates

Chapter 6

Chapter Three

Jen

I stretched. What time is it? I opened my eyes.

What time is it?Sunlight shone through the curtains. He wasn’t next to me.

“Dylan?”

There was no response. I sat up, holding the afghan to my breasts, and discovered aches in muscles I didn’t know existed. A hot bath was definitely in order. Gingerly, I stood, and wrapped the blanket around my body.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up.

Jen,

Highway patrol came by this morning for the owner of my car. Sorry I can’t stay. Last night was amazing. You looked so peaceful I couldn’t bear to wake you. If you’re ever down in L.A., look me up.

Dylan

A phone number was written below his name.

He left?

I looked around, and sure enough, his clothes and guitar were gone. He’d picked up mine and left them folded on the couch, though. I walked into the kitchen and discovered coffee had been made, too.

Sweet to the end.

With the blizzard over and the roads being cleared, my family would probably be up here today. Christmas would continue. I went to work on preparations with a smile.

Over the next week, I thought about my life up to now and where I wanted it to go. The contrast between Lee and Dylan was too great to ignore and the truth came rushing to mind.

Lee and I had moved up here because I fell in love with it.

IHe still worked off the mountain, hung out with friends off the mountain, drove to the beach for the day while I wrote…

He had looked on foreplay as a necessary chore and the main event like a race. After a while, he didn’t try to get me off anymore and I faked more than one c****x just so he’d let me sleep.

When he got laid off and we couldn’t afford the gas trips up and down, he started to drink. At first, it was a couple nights a week at the bar. I didn’t mind at the time because I thought he was socializing, making friends. I was deep in a manuscript and the time alone kept my fingers on the keyboard.

Only when he started drinking at home, instead, did I realize there was a problem. By the time I tried to help, it was too late. I hadn’t written another book since.

The guilt kept me shut away from living, from my true self. I’d been conforming to the wife I thought Lee wanted before he died—mostly without realizing it. But, looking back now, I saw the slowing of my proliferation as an author coinciding with my attempts to make him happy.

It wasn’t my fault he turned to booze, though. That was his choice, and his choice to get in that car.

hisI’d wanted a way to escape my self-imposed cage. Dylan found where I dropped the key.

Now, I no longer felt like hiding on top of the mountain.