Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Jasinda Wilder Page B

to quit. I want a drink every single goddamn moment of every single goddamn day. I’m a fucking mess. I don’t smoke, never have. Don’t drink, now, because I can’t. I might be able to handle a drink or two. Maybe . But what if I can’t? What if I’m a real-deal alkie, like I take a drink and somehow I’m wasted, with no in between? The what if , that’s the fucking worst.  
    No, not having any outlet is the worst.
    I don’t actually do anything. I’m not skilled at anything except sailing, drinking, and fucking. And the problem is, if I set out to do the first, I’ll end up doing the second. And right now, as odd as it feels to realize this, I’m not in any place to be doing the third.
    I’m lonely as hell, of course. I’ve never been alone before—I don’t know how. But here I am, alone, all day, every day.
    I run a lot. Up the beach a few miles and back. Swim in the frigid water. I read a lot of books—I’m catching up on the classics I never read by not going to college.  
    I don’t have a talent.
    I don’t have a trade.
    I don’t have a skill.  
    I don’t have…anything worthwhile.  
    I am no one.  
    Goddamn you, Astrid, for putting the thought in my head: You are wrong about one thing, Lock: the only true measure of a person is what they do with their life.  
    Now I can’t forget that shit, and I can’t stop realizing, time and again, over and over, that it’s the truth, and the truth in this case inculpates me.  
    What have I done with my life? Not a goddamn thing.
    What am I worth? Not a goddamn thing.
    I mean, financially I’m worth a lot. Mom wrangled back the shares I sold all those years ago, and recently signed them back to me. So now I’m worth a fuck-ton of money again.  
    Super cool.
    But…what do I do with it?
    Funny how life works. Live like I’m dying, because I am, and enjoy every moment, knowing it’s coming to an end all too soon. But now that I have a future in front of me I hate myself, I hate every moment of my life. Legit, I have zero self-esteem.
    No direction.
    No plan.
    No reason for existing.
    Before, I had a reason: live like I’m dying, as that old Tim McGraw song goes.  
    Now—alive and not dying, I have no reason.

    *   *   *

    “Lachlan, Larry here.” There’s a rustling of paper on the other end of the line. “I have some information for you.”
    “Great. Let’s hear it.”  
    “The donor was a man named Oliver James. A doctor, specifically a surgeon who worked for Doctors Without Borders. Died in a car accident on the PCH. He was thirty-six. Married, no children. His parents are listed as his next of kin, and they’re actually in your area. Down in Kneeland, or thereabouts.”  
    He gives me an address, and tells me to give him a call if I need anything else. I don’t know what I’ll find. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I just know I can’t stay here anymore. I need…I don’t even know. But if I can find something out about this Oliver James, whose heart beats in my chest, maybe I’ll…
    Maybe I’ll what? I don’t even know.
    I don’t question the need to leave, though. I toss a backpack and some camping gear into the back of my truck and head down to Kneeland.  

    *   *   *

    Damn…this is backwoods. Real backwoods. Not much here but ranches, farms, and old houses on rolling hills tucked back into quiet old-growth forests.
    Even after I find the correct county road, it takes me another thirty minutes of driving before I spot the mailbox with the right house number. I pull into a long, winding, dusty driveway, which in turn leads me way, way back into the wooded hills. Rolling fields behind, hundred-foot-tall trees towering ahead, swaying in a gentle breeze. I’ve got the windows open so I can smell the air, taste the fine grit of the dirt road, and hear the crunch of my tires.  
    The house itself is a tiny little place, ramshackle, probably a good hundred years old, maybe more. Smoke curls up from the