More than Exist

By Bethany Lopez

Love can exit your life as quickly as it enters it, shattering your heart in the process.

It's been a year since my husband was taken from me in a tragic accident. I thought it would kill me. Now, I think I'm ready to start healing.

My mother says my idea of taking a solo cross-country road trip is crazy, but I see it as my road to recovery. Along the way, I'll have to deal with the poor choices I've made since Ricky died. I'll have to overcome the terror that his death has caused me. I'll have to find my balance again.

And once I meet Luke and his young son, I'll have to decide if I can take the risk to do more than exist and learn to love again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bethany Lopez
• Release date: Oct 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370764969

Bethany Lopez

Bethany Lopez es una autora que, desde su primera publicación en el año 2011, ya cuenta con más de treinta libros en la lista de Más Vendidos según USA Today. Le apasiona el romance, y lo incorpora en todos los libros que escribe, sin importar el género.   Cuando no lee o escribe, Bethany ama pasar tiempo con su familia y viajar a donde le sea posible.  Generalmente, pueden encontrar a Bethany con una taza de café o una copa de vino, ¡y nunca jamás les rechazará un cupcake! 

Book preview

Prologue

What do you do when your perfect life is shattered in an instant?

A year ago, I got the knock at the door that every person fears. It was a rainy Sunday morning and I was lounging around, still in pajamas, waiting for my husband, Ricky, to get home so we could have breakfast. I remember letting out a frustrated sigh when the knock came at the door, angered because I was reading, and things were getting good. I’d bookmarked the page on my Kindle, then threw my fuzzy blanket off and stormed to the door, ready to give someone hell for coming to my house so early on a Sunday.

When I opened the door, my rebuff froze at the sight of a policeman on my front porch.

I crossed my arms, hugging them to myself instinctually in defense, as if I already knew I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

It’s funny how everything can be so in focus one minute, and a blur of confusion the next. After he said the word accident and motorcycle, it was as if he’d morphed into one of those teachers on Charlie Brown.

Wa, Wa, Wa Wa Wa Wa…

I remember crumbling. Just falling to the floor at the policeman’s feet, my entire body numb as my mind tried to make sense out of what the HELL was going on.

Ricky died on impact. The doctors said he didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t suffer. He was simply there one second, and gone the next. What started as an early-morning ride, ended up changing the course of my life forever.

The ironic thing … Ricky had survived four tours in the Middle East, only to be killed on a stupid motorcycle in the good ole US of A, on a deserted street in San Diego, California. I’d lived in terror throughout each deployment, but it had never occurred to me that I’d lose him at home.

Part I

The Journey

Chapter 1

Y es, Mom, I’m sure, I assured her as I tucked the phone in between my ear and my shoulder so I could resume packing.

I know you think I worry too much, Mirabelle, but driving cross-country all by yourself is crazy. I could hear the strain in my mother’s voice, and I understood it, I totally did, but I swear, my mom acted like I was eighteen instead of thirty-two. Why don’t you let me buy you a plane ticket?

I rolled my eyes, grateful that she couldn’t see the insolent act.

I don’t want to fly, that defeats the purpose of this trip, I replied, softening my tone. "I need to do this, Mom."

I could feel the fight go out of her, even though she was in Florida and I was in California, it was that palpable.

Okay, Belle, she said on a sigh. Just make sure you call me every night.

I will.

And, have your car serviced before you leave.

Done.

And, make sure you stop every couple hours to stretch.

Mom…

And, stop when you’re tired.

I laughed into the phone.

I will. Mom, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

I know, she replied, and I hoped those weren’t tears I heard in her voice. Be safe, Belle. I love you.

I love you too, Mom. See you soon.

I shut off my phone and stuck it in my back pocket, then looked around the house that had been my home for the last ten years. It was empty now, save the few things I’d kept behind for my trip, and the large open rooms felt as hollow as my heart.

It had been a year since Ricky died, but I’d been unable to think about what to do next, until recently. I’d been comfortable in my grief, and stayed because this is where I felt closest to him.

We’d met twelve years ago in Louisiana, but I moved here once we were married, and the bulk of our relationship was spent here. So when I lost him, the thought of losing San Diego, our house, and our memories, was too much to bear. So I stayed, even though there was nothing for me here any longer.

My parents live in Florida, and I’m an only child.

Ricky’s father passed away four years ago, colon cancer, and his mother and sister, Consuela, still live in Louisiana.

I have no family here, and no one that I would call a true friend. I mean, sure, I’d made some friends at work over the years, but with Ricky gone so often, I mostly kept to myself.

He was not only my husband, but also my best friend, and with him gone I’d went from a loner to a hermit.

I’d started drinking. Initially, to ease the pain I’d felt with his death, but lately, I drank because it was four o’clock, and I had nothing else to do. Plus, I liked it. I liked feeling numb. When I drank the anxiety and panic left me. I knew my limits, too. I knew how much I needed to drink to reach that moment of peace, and when I needed to stop before peace became loneliness and grief.

I’d finally come to the realization that I couldn’t live this way any longer, so I’d sold the house, had our stuff packed up and loaded on a truck, and was about to embark on my first adventure in years.

I think my mother suspected that I was drinking too much, and I knew she wanted to get me in person so she could confirm her fears, but I wasn’t ready to stop. Alcohol had become my friend. The one thing I could rely on to make me feel better, and I wasn’t willing to give it up.

Ricky and I loved road trips, and often used them as a way to break out of the mold of our everyday lives. Whenever we took a trip, we vowed to be open to trying new things, and took that vow very seriously.

I was driving cross-country, stopping to see his family, and then my own, before I decided what I wanted to do next with my life. Where I wanted to live. Where I wanted to work.

I was a cook. Not a chef, since I’d never been classically trained, but I’d been cooking since I was old enough to reach the counter in my mother’s kitchen. What had started as my mother teaching me what her mother had taught her, had turned into a passion, and I’d been working in kitchens since I was sixteen years old.

Over the last few years I’d been working at a diner. Working the early shift and mostly cooking breakfast and prepping lunch, before getting off and having my afternoons and evenings to myself. I wasn’t sure exactly where I wanted to go next, but I knew it would be in a kitchen somewhere. I needed at least that one semblance of normalcy in my life.

I took one last look at the shell of what had once been my home, slung my bag over my shoulder, and walked out without looking back.

It was time to move on.

Chapter 2

The one thing I hadn’t thought of was how different it would be to travel alone. I was bored after three hours.

My Nissan Altima was a smooth ride, so comfort wasn’t the problem; being alone with my thoughts was … I never realized how much my brain buzzed while I was driving, until I was flying down the highway, bound for Las Vegas, with Kenny Chesney blaring through my speakers. I couldn’t turn it off. My brain, that is. I just kept flashing back to my life with Ricky, and the last twelve months without him.

Alone in my car, I could admit that I’d been in a pretty bad place.

My parents, along with Ricky’s mom and sister, had come out for the funeral. They’d stayed with me, in our house, but I couldn’t remember anything from that time. They got themselves to our house from the airport, had kept my house clean, food in the fridge, and had helped with all of the funeral arrangements, then they’d gotten themselves back to the airport.

It was all a blur.

The drinking started once I was alone. They’d offered to come back out to visit since, but I’d always claimed to be too busy … which was a lie. I’m sure they all knew I was lying, but I didn’t want anyone to intrude on my sanctuary. My lair of depression. And I didn’t want them to tell me that I was beginning to have a problem. It was much easier to tell myself that it was okay, that I just needed a little something to get me through the day.

I’d quit my job soon after the funeral. I’m sure they would have given me all the time I needed, but I didn’t want to go back. Even then, I’d known that I couldn’t live the same life. Not anymore. Not without Ricky in it.

Even at the restaurant, memories of Ricky were everywhere. The days he would show up and sit in the corner booth, eating his breakfast and reading the paper. The time he’d shown up to surprise me on our anniversary, with a bouquet of flowers so big he had to crane his neck to be seen around them.

So I’d moped, eaten crap food, and basically took showering off my agenda. I’m ashamed to admit that this went on for months. That was when the drinking started to become a habit, rather than a once-in-a-while activity.

Eventually I began to come out of the fog, to see the color in the world again, and embrace the sun and wind as I strolled the parks by our house. Little by little, I began to get myself back. I started eating better, and remembered how much I loved a hot shower.

But I didn’t stop drinking. I couldn’t. I needed it too much.

When I realized it was time for me to leave, my heart broke all over again, but I knew, deep down, that it was for the best. I also knew, in that private part of my mind where I was honest with myself, that I needed help and wouldn’t be able to fix this on my own.

Now, as I watched the pavement fly by, I could feel the fear start to take hold. What was I going to do next? This trip was only going to take a week, maybe ten days if I stretched it out, then it would be time to face the music and get a life. That meant I only had ten days left of drinking. It felt like I’d be losing something else important to me, and the thought left me terrified.

What if I couldn’t do it? What if I wasn’t strong enough?

I saw a sign for In-N-Out, and figured now was as good a time to grab a bite to eat as any.

Since I was stopped, I went by a station and topped off my gas tank, then went to the restroom. Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the road to Vegas, an animal-style burger, fries, and chocolate shake my only company.

A couple hours later, it was dark, and I was coming though the mountains, excited to experience my favorite part of trips to Vegas. That moment when you come through the pass, your view becomes clear, and the night is filled with the twinkling lights of Las Vegas.

Just because you see the lights, doesn’t mean you’ve arrived. It’s very deceiving, and no matter how many times I drive there, I’m always surprised at how much longer it takes to actually get there, even though it looks so close.

I was still smiling when I finally neared the city, and when my gaze landed on the tall tower of the Stratosphere, I knew that was where I had to stay. Yes, it is one of the older buildings, and it’s not that close to the flashy new, desirable part of the strip, but it’s where Ricky and I stayed on our first trip to Vegas.

We didn’t have a lot of money, and we’d never been to Vegas before, but we wanted a getaway so we decided to splurge.

I took advantage of the complementary valet parking, smiling at the valet as I slid out of the car, grabbing my bag out of the back seat.

The fact that I was able to book a room for $37 told me things had definitely changed, but the feelings that hit me as I made my way to my room made me feel like I was twenty-three again, and totally in love. My heart pinched as the feelings coursed through me, and I worried that I made a mistake coming here.

I needed a drink. Pronto.

As I opened the door to my room, I concentrated on breathing in through my nose, and out through my mouth, like the doctor told me to do whenever I felt overwhelmed by loss.

I threw my bag on the bed and went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. When I stood, I took in my appearance in the mirror. Long, light-brown hair, pulled back into a messy tail, which hadn’t seen a trim or highlights since the day my world imploded. Makeup was no longer a part of my daily routine, but my face held color from the San Diego sun, and my hazel eyes were a large and pleasing attribute. At five foot five inches, I’d always felt pretty average, especially since