The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

throw the sheets off and jump out of bed, not wanting my mind to replay that last scene, over and over. My limbs are weak, but the horror soon releases a nice shot of adrenaline in my system. Nature’s methamphetamine.

I can’t. Not again.

Bedside table. I flip my phone over. It’s 3:22 a.m.

Tonight’s dream was worse than normal. So vivid, as if I were reliving it all over again. From experience, I know it’ll take at least two hours to fall back asleep, at which point it will be close to my alarm time. And I’m not going to lie there and let the imagery eat me. Not tonight.

Into the bathroom, light on, the harshness of which hits me like high beams from an oncoming truck. I see myself in the mirror, wince against my reflection. I don’t want to be real, to exist. Not right now.

God, how good it would feel to smash my fist into the glass, see my image burst in a thousand shards. I can taste it. The pain. The blood.

I resist. It’s not easy.

I allow one long stare at myself, my gaze full of accusation, diminishment, maybe even hate.

I spring into action, needing to do something with this burning self-loathing, needing to sweat the toxins out of me. Hair pulled tight in a ponytail. Throw on running shorts, sports bra, Dri-FIT tank, HOKA sneakers. Down the stairs to the main level. Punch the code into the keypad, disarm the house. Out the front door. No phone, no headphones, no Fitbit, no water, no headlamp, no plan, nothing.

And I run.

Streetlights glow against my wishes. I want to run in complete darkness. Maybe then I could fall off a cliff or smash headfirst into a tree. Then they could tell my son my death was an accident.

I tire quickly, because jumping out of bed in the middle of the night and sprinting is a foolish idea.

But I keep going, wanting to puke. Wanting my heart to burst. Wanting to feel pain, longing for punishment.

Distance is immeasurable. Only not as far as I want, but farther than I should.

I reach the point where I capitulate to reason and turn around. That’s the hardest part of all. Making that decision to come back. How much easier to let the night take me, swallow and digest me, and excrete me into the afterworld.

Still, I turn and begin walking toward home.

A few steps in, I see his face. That face. Helpless.

It’s all I see.

“I’m sorry,” I tell the night. Tell him.

I close my eyes. I see his.

There’s an eternity in this moment.

“I’m so sorry.”

Nine

August 30

I’m on the fourth mile of my morning run. It feels good to run for exercise, not just to escape nightmares. I haven’t had the dream for over two weeks, so maybe my return to Bury is starting to provide the therapy I need.

Last night’s heavy downpour washed away the humidity, leaving the morning crisp, a rare hint of a fall that’s still a few weeks away. Despite the cool, sweat flies off me with each step, and I’m already tapping into my second water pouch.

I know all these streets, all these houses. Little has changed since my teen years. Bury hasn’t expanded or contracted; it remains trapped in a pocket of time and money, insulated from the outside world. No wonder my father loves it here. The town of Bury is nothing more than a strong front door. Steadfast and unyielding to time.

There is scarcely any lower or middle class here, and I’m reminded of that with every house I pass. Every perfect lawn, every iron gate. All the brick is red, all the creeping vines green. Most of the residents white.

I make a right into Arlington Estates, a small neighborhood of colonials built sometime in the forties and fifties. I remember a few high school parties in this area held at Bob Sakin’s house. He was a classic screwup of a kid, an only child of very rich and devoutly inattentive parents. They let him do whatever he wanted, and since he wasn’t smart enough to do anything worthwhile, he spent his days in a haze of pot smoke and held huge parties on the weekends when his parents dashed off to their other house in the Hamptons.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to all these people from my past. But those times are few. I’m content keeping my past buried, which underscores the conflict with being back here. I’m sure many of the people from my past still live here, and I won’t be able to avoid seeing them for long.

I round another street, intent on looping my way around this neighborhood on my way back home. Two houses up on the right, a man in a tank top is trimming back branches on a tree that towers over the sidewalk. His presence doesn’t intrigue me so much because he’s black, though I’d be lying if I said that didn’t surprise me a little. I’m more intrigued because this man is intensely good looking, and as I approach, I realize the better term is beautiful.

I’m running on the sidewalk where he’s working, compelling me to cross over to the street. As I close in, I cut through a strip of soaking-wet grass, and my right foot slips out from under me. It doesn’t take more than a split second to realize I’m going to fall, with no ability to do anything about it other than accept my fate.

The man and I make brief eye contact as my banana-peel crash happens less than ten feet from where he’s standing. I land hard on my butt, my earbuds popping out as I do, and the only thing saving me from a broken tailbone is the spongy grass. I twist on the ground in a little pain and a lot of embarrassment.

The man drops his shears and races toward me.

“Are you okay?”

My running shorts have soaked in water and my butt is now unpleasantly moist.

“I think so,” I