Elusive Magic (Book 9, of the Ink Series)

Nothing is easy

I push past the pain in my back and keep running on the jogger's path near the water.

Running is my outlet for escaping the stress I feel that makes me drink. And ever since I figured out I am an alcoholic, I have been running every day just about. Sometimes I run twice a day. When I feel the sadness start to take over me, I throw on my running shoes and take off. Everyone knows why, and they no longer question where I am going. They understand that I need time away—time alone.

Who would have thought you would turn out just like your fucking father.

You don't even realize that you have a problem until it's too late. That's the thing about addiction. Even now, I don't see myself as an alcoholic. But the world knows it, and my actions feed right into what the world says about my behavior. I don't particularly appreciate knowing I have this...disease. I don't feel like it's a disease. Even though they say, it is.

I think I don't know how to cope with my life now with all the really shitty cards I have gotten lately. Some people can deal, and others can't. I can't.

I don't know what to do with the loss of my son.

I run faster at the thought of his sweet little face. Because when I think about his face, I think about Slade's face and how sad he looked that day.

And then I think about how hard I cried and how bad it hurt in my chest—and how it secretly still hurts there and has never stopped since that day.

The path comes to an end at the sand and the beach. All the people, the sun, and the noises bring me back to a time when I thought I would die in this hell hole. But now, as I look around, it isn't that bad. It seems more welcoming than the first time I stepped on the sands. A lot has changed.

I take out my AirPods, slip them into the little secret pocket on my leggings, and check my watch. I still have a little bit before I have to figure out dinner.

I bend down, undo my running shoes, pull off my socks, carry them over to a lounge chair, and drop them. And then I get cozy on the chair, lean back, and listen to my beating heart trying to calm itself down after the run.

The breeze feels good against my sweaty skin. I close my eyes and take in the moment.

I feel good—not great. But I feel relaxed for once. And then, just like that, it ends. I get a volleyball upside the head.

And I see stars, I let out a slew of cuss words and search for the asshole who doesn't know how to let a woman fucking rest. But all I see is an adorable little boy staring at me in shame.

I sit up. "It's okay." I pick up the ball and extend it towards him.

He doesn't move. He just keeps looking at me in shock that he hit me. He doesn't say anything. Big green eyes, there is something about them. Something interesting, but I can't figure out what it is.

"I'm Hope. What's your name?"

"Zeke."

"It's nice to meet you, Zeke. You didn't hurt me."

He reluctantly walks up to me and takes the ball.

"I'm sorry if I did," he says to me.

I smile at him and shake my head. "Nope. I am fine. You like volleyball?"

He looks over his shoulder and back at me. "Not really. I'm just bored. And my Dad said I have to play with my brother. He likes kicking the ball around the beach."

"Oh. I see. How old are you?" I know I am being a little nosy, but I'm a mom. I wouldn't let my small child on the beach and out of my sight.

"Almost ten. My brother is four." He looks over his shoulder again. "He's the one throwing sand at the seagulls."