More than Exist
Bethany Lopez
Contents
Prologue
The Journey
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
The Ranch
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Recipe
Love & Recipes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bethany Lopez
More than Exist
Copyright 2016 Bethany Lopez
Published October 2016
ISBN - 978-1507663639
Cover Design by Okay Creations
Editing by Red Road Editing / Kristina Circelli
Ebook Formatting by Bethany Lopez
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Created with Vellum
For anyone who has ever struggled with addiction.
Love is a strong and powerful emotion; it can exit your life as quickly as it entered it, shattering your heart in the process
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
“Yes, 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 Ricky was only a few inches taller than me.
I guessed that I looked younger than my thirty-two years, especially without makeup, but I felt more like fifty.
I went down the elevator to the casino floor, then looked around until I saw what I was looking for, the C Bar. I weaved through the rows of slot machines until I reached my destination, my heart starting to pound in anticipation of a drink. I was almost salivating as the rows of bottles became closer.
“Long Island Iced Tea,” I told the bartender when she came over to where I was standing.
I looked around the casino as I waited for my drink. It looked nicer than I’d expected, like they’d recently updated the floor.
“That’ll be ten dollars,” the bartender said as she slid the tall drink in front of me.
“Can you go ahead and ring me up for two?” I asked as took my wallet out of my purse and h
anded her my card.
She said, “Sure,” without batting an eye, then took my card as I took my first, long drink.
It was good. Perfectly mixed so that the high content of alcohol was barely noticeable.
By the time she brought back my card and the second drink, I was already done with the first. I said, “Thanks,” then took the plastic cup and drank it as I made my way toward the exit.
Deciding I needed to stretch my legs and get some fresh air, I exited the hotel before any feelings hijacked me.
March in Las Vegas is manageable. I’d been here in the summer before and hated the torturous heat, but the weather right now was perfect. Not too hot, not too cold.
I started walking, looking around but not really paying attention, when I realized how dark it was, and that I was unfamiliar with my surroundings. I looked up, and saw the glow of lights off to the right, so I turned and started back the way I came.
The massive amounts of liquor I’d just consumed in such a short amount of time began to make their effects known, and I welcomed the numbness as it floated through me.
I was hyper aware of the sound of my Toms slapping on the cement, when my ears picked up the sound of footsteps behind me. Suddenly, my heart began to pound, and my skin became heated as sweat started popping out on my body.
I may have been paranoid, but I quickened my pace.
So did the person behind me.
I was about to break into a run, when I was shoved from behind and went sprawling onto the ground. I shielded my face from the cement, but felt my arm being jerked behind me as my attacker pulled the purse off my shoulder, before I was released and I heard the sound feet running away from me.
I pulled myself up quickly, turning in time to see a figure turn left about a block away. Without a thought, I jumped to my feet and took off after the purse-snatcher. I’d run track when I was younger, and until the accident, had kept it up. So, even though I was slightly inebriated, I was able to gain ground quickly. I turned the corner in time to see the figure open a door and bolt inside, my purse swinging as the door shut behind him.