I haven’t been in his room once since moving in, and even though dusting in there was on my list of things to do two days ago, I just didn’t feel right invading his space that way.
Today is different. If the man returns here, the last thing he should worry about is whether he has clean sheets on his bed. I’m determined to make his return as easy as possible, but my hand still hesitates on the doorknob before I turn it and push the door open.
In any other situation than the one this house has seen, the room would be considered happy. The decor definitely has a feminine touch because I can’t see rough and tumble Harley picking out throw pillows and a lap blanket for the bed. I can tell he probably had a hand in the sleek, dark furniture though. It doesn’t smell the way a normal room would. Gone are the personal scents of soap, perfume, and cologne.
The room is pristine, making it feel like entering a tomb when I walk inside. Either Lana was a very clean person, or Em and Misty cleaned up in here since the accident. There isn’t a set of discarded pajamas from the morning of that tragic day. There isn’t a glass of water on the bedside table, nor book or eReader. The only personal thing beside the bed is a smiling picture of Lana. I know the blonde woman to be her from all the other pictures around the house. She’s always smiling, but at the other people with her, either down at the baby or at Harley like he’s the greatest thing in the world, and for her, he probably was.
My chest caves a little more as I let that sentiment sink in, my heart having to work a little harder with the sympathy for Harley swarming inside of me.
Other than that one picture, the room looks the way you would expect a staged house to look in a model home. Perfect. Impersonal. Filled with furniture but empty of any real life.
I should probably step back and leave, let the man worry about his own bed if he ever returns, but I move mechanically to the closet, knowing the spare sheets for the guest bedroom were in my closet, and hoping to find the same here.
I don’t know why the sight of her clothes in the closet shocks me so much. This was her room—their room. Of course they would be in here.
What isn’t in the closet are fresh sheets, meaning I have to look elsewhere. Without looking at the bedside table again with her smiling picture, I head in to the en suite, thankfully finding the clean sheets in the linen closet.
I make quick, economical work of the bed and close the door behind me, taking the gathered laundry straight to the washer.
It’s very possible that these sheets were changed by either Em or Misty at some point in the last six months, but I’m not a big enough creep to lift them to my nose to see. I drop them in the washer, add the soap, and turn it on.
When I get back to the kitchen counter, I see a text alert on my phone.
Harley: Sorry I was driving when you texted. Had to come back to the clubhouse to get some of my things.
I reread the message, taking note that he doesn’t mention when he plans to return.
Suddenly exhausted, I head back to Aria’s room and sit in the glider in the corner, letting my eyes close, just glad to be nearby when she wakes up.
Chapter 14
Harley
When I stepped back into this house a few minutes ago, I was certain my heart was going to race and threaten to beat out of my chest with anxiety.
My body is having the opposite reaction, however. My pulse is sluggish, as if it doesn’t want to work at all, as if being back here is going to make it stop beating altogether.
The fake bravado I mustered as I walked to the front steps remains because I figured I’d need to be strong in case I ran into Ali. I hate that people have seen me at my weakest, and in the beginning, I wasn’t able to control that aching part of me. I’ve gotten better at hiding my pain in front of others, letting it build until it overflowed after Aria went down for the night. My little girl is the last one I want to see my vulnerability.
The nights I spend hurting and begging God to bring Lana back are growing further and further apart, and even that makes me ache with guilt. I know moving on, having more good days than bad, is the goal after losing someone so precious, but it doesn’t stop the remorse from thoughts of letting her go.