He winced and rubbed his jaw. “The boys and I thought we’d get a few beers and some grub.”

I glanced around at the two other men at the table. I knew them both to varying degrees. Pete was a transplant from Seattle, having moved to Anchor for a quiet place to raise his family. But Ethan had grown up with us and had been in the same grade as Hunter and me.

I forced a smile. “Hi, boys. What can I get ya?”

Pete grinned down at the table. “Still pissed at Hunt?”

I scowled at him. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“Lay off, Pete.” Ethan gave me a gentle smile. “You hanging in there, Bell?”

I tried to push the smile wider. “Right as rain. Now, let’s get you your drinks. What’ll it be?” I let myself zone out to the rhythm of waitressing, the sea of familiar faces, and did everything I could to avoid the blue eyes behind the bar.

I trudged up the stairs at the back of the bar, my legs feeling like they were carrying an extra fifty or sixty pounds. Everything hurt. I’d been on my feet since ten that morning, and it was now after one a.m. My bed was calling my name, but I desperately needed a shower to clean off the day—both the physical labor and the emotional pain. Showers always seemed to help. The pounding of the water against my skull dulled the painful memories.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my keys. Unlocking the door, I stepped inside and kicked off my boots. “Shower. A shower will make everything better.” And it did. I turned the water as hot as I could stand it and let everything melt away. When I got out, everything was clearer, a little less ominous.

I twisted my hair up into a towel wrap and secured it in place. It would just have to do because I wasn’t standing here for another thirty minutes blow-drying my hair. Crossing to my dresser, I went straight for my comfiest PJs, the flannel ones covered in bright ice cream cones. As I pulled them out, my hand stilled on the top drawer. I opened it and carefully lifted out the scrapbook.

Its clothbound cover was fraying slightly at the edges, and slips of paper and ribbon stuck out from the pages. I set it on my bed and quickly put on my PJs. Sliding under the covers, I pulled the scrapbook onto my lap. A therapist my parents had forced me to see after the accident had suggested the project. An artistic outlet and way to remember my sister.