Free What Might Have Been by Kira Sinclair Page B

the fuzzy robe Ainsley had bought her last Christmas.
    Before she could sit down again, Luke walked in through the open door.
    â€œWho was that?”
    She looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely. “Someone calling about your grandfather’s funeral arrangements.”
    With a nod, Luke retreated again. She should probably feel bad about what she’d just done. But she didn’t.
    Some people needed a little help to realize what was important.
    Â 
    T HE VISITATION WAS GRUELING . Luke had stood at the front of the small chapel at Brown’s Funeral Home—the only funeral home in town—with Gran on his right,Ainsley on his left and the open casket behind them, as a steady stream of people walked through to pay their last respects.
    People he’d never met, or hadn’t seen in twenty years, stopped to tell him stories of his grandfather. Or stories of his parents. Or stories of his brother. Or stories of himself.
    Most of those stories might have had a sentimental or humorous slant, but they’d all exhausted him. They’d brought back memories of his own and reminded him of just how much he’d really lost in his relatively short lifetime. The two hours had turned into an emotional gauntlet he hadn’t expected.
    The three of them had each taken a private moment with Pops before the director had closed the casket and told them everything was ready for the service the following day. As they exited the building, Luke was surprised to find that late-afternoon had given way to the watery tones of early-evening.
    The heat of the day still lingered, though, and despite spending most of his days in suits, the heavy, formfitting fabric had long since become cloying and claustrophobic. At the moment what he wanted more than anything was a few minutes of freedom. From his own memories and from the ringing disappointment of everyone he’d spoken to. Because what had inevitably followed each of those touching stories was an expression of disappointment that he planned to sell the orchard and throw away his heritage.
    In his head he knew the little old men and womenwho’d spoken thought they were doing the right thing. In reality they were just reinforcing his decision. There was no way he could live in this place. He couldn’t stand up to the expectations of the entire town…of people he barely even knew!
    Hours later, their words were still ringing in his ears. Slipping on a pair of nylon running shorts, Luke headed out the door into the night, into the quiet. It was well after ten, but it had been days since he’d been able to go for a run and he figured tomorrow didn’t look promising. His time would be filled with more grief and responsibility…getting a few moments to run and clear his head was hoping for too much.
    He hadn’t always loved to run. But he’d discovered, after an unusually stressful day at the company, that he’d needed to find some small space of clean air to breathe in the ever-pressing walls of the city. He’d strapped on tennis shoes that were at least six years old and set out. It wasn’t until he’d found a small park several blocks away that the pressure in his chest had finally started to ease.
    Only to be replaced by a stitch in his side about halfway around the mile-long track. He’d limped home that night and been almost unable to walk the next morning. But two days later he’d been out there again, needing the green grass, tall trees and open spaces to clear his mind.
    It had become his stress relief in a world he’d piled high with stress.
    Tonight he needed the same escape, the same mindlessoblivion that let the hamster on the wheel in his brain take a rest.
    There was something calming about the terrain as he ran. The gentle rhythm of his feet hitting the worn paths between the trees. The rustling of the wind through the leaves above his head.
    The silence.
    Although it might not be the safest